


Mr. Congeniality

by blondsak



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Michelle Jones is a BAMF, Peter Parker is a Reluctant Beauty King, Precious Ned Leeds, RomCom AU, Tony Stark is a Snarky Pageant Consultant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:27:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22131778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondsak/pseuds/blondsak
Summary: “Let’s just pretend I say yes to this-- do I really have to do itall?The parading, the shimmering--”“The twirling, the smiling, the cute little swimsuit number? Yes, Parker,” Director Fury says. “SHIELD agents don’t do anything half-assed, you know that.”Peter blows out a slow breath. He looks back and forth between the two other agents before asking in a defeated tone, “Even the Speedo?”“Definitely the Speedo,” Jones replies with a victorious smirk.Peter groans, head dropping into his hands.// OR: theMiss CongenialityAU.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, past Steve Rogers/Tony Stark - Relationship
Comments: 275
Kudos: 321





	1. The Screw-Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seekrest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekrest/gifts).



> Hi seekrest :) This isn’t your actual birthday fic - that will be posted later today - but did I write this story to celebrate you and your two favorite dumbasses-in-love for the entire month of January? WHY YES, I ABSOLUTELY DID. Happy birthday friend <3
> 
> Humongous thank yous and hugs to frostysunflowers for reading over the first chapter, coconutknightshade for the hilarious live commentary, and hailingstars for DRAMA QUEEN STEVE!
> 
> Will update 1-2 times per week.

“Are you in the lab? Confirm, Parker-- are you in the lab?”

“Hold your horses, Jones,” Peter mutters into his comm.

He throws the white lab coat over the security guard uniform - his task to get Hardy a backdoor into the system complete - and checks he’s wearing the correct fake badge before walking down a few hallways and into the lab. 

Only two other scientists are inside, both at the same lab bench. Peter goes to stand at the one on the other side of the room, about thirty feet away.

“Confirmed. I’m in the lab,” he whispers.

“Took you long enough,” Jones replies, and Peter swears he can hear the eyeroll in her tone.

“Next time you can go undercover then,” he says with no small amount of snark.

“And put you out of a job?” Jones quips back.

Peter doesn’t answer right away, having to grin and wave awkwardly when the taller scientist - the one decked out in full safety gear, mask and all - side-eyes him from across the room. 

After a few moments he turns back to where he and the other lab worker are examining a glass container with some kind of creature - Peter thinks it might be a spider - inside.

Peter tries to look busy as he picks up a slide from the tray nearby and slots it under a microscope.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re incorrigible, Jones?”

“Has anyone ever told _you_ your comebacks are crap?”

“Could the two of you stop flirting for one damn second?” Brant chimes in.

“Yeah, I’m kinda trying to concentrate over here,” Hardy agrees.

“We’re not flirting,” Peter and Jones say in unison, and that’s when Agent Stacy - the mission’s team leader - steps in, silencing everyone else on the comm.

“Parker, not another word from you until I give the go-ahead. You too, Jones. What’s the status, Hardy?”

“Almost there, boss,” Hardy replies. “Twenty more seconds before I’ll have full command of the security system, and we’ll be in.”

The team - Lead Agent Gwen Stacy and Agents Michelle Jones, Betty Brant, Felicia Hardy and Peter Parker - had been tasked with taking down the underground genetics lab only the week before. 

The mission had been handed down when SHIELD had received intel the operation was being overseen by the mysterious Dr. No - a power and well-funded criminal in the illegal experimentation underworld, among other related crimes. Dr. No’s identity had yet to be uncovered but SHIELD had reason to believe offline servers being kept somewhere in the lab facility might hold the key to finding him.

Of course, those offline servers would have to be taken to SHIELD headquarters for proper data extraction. Hence the raid.

Peter had to admit he had been mildly impressed that someone ridiculous enough to name their criminal alter ego after a James Bond villain could continue to elude SHIELD so effectively but somehow they did. 

(And _especially_ a James Bond villain that was suffocated to death in a pile of guano, Peter thinks with a grimace. Perhaps they’d only ever seen the movie version.)

“Okay boss,” Hardy says. “All main doors and side exits will be unlocked in three… two... one… we’re in.”

Peter can hear Stacy tossing out orders while he tries to remain as nonchalant as possible, fiddling with the microscope. But as soon as the lab doors burst open to reveal Jones and Stacy, he drops the facade and pulls his gun out, pointing it at the hooded scientist that had earlier side-eyed him. 

“Everyone on the floor!” Stacy cries out. Immediately the second scientist drops to his knees, hands behind his head. However, the tall, masked one keeps fiddling with what Peter guesses is the glass container holding the lab spider.

“On the floor now!” Stacy yells again.

As the scientist in full gear turns slowly from the lab bench, Peter feels a ping of unease at how nonchalantly he gets to his knees. Peter’s focus immediately hones in on the man’s right hand, which is clenched into a tight fist.

“D-drop it!” Peter yells out, turning immediately red at the way he stumbles over his words-- avoiding what is surely an unimpressed look from Jones. 

(So what if it’s his first undercover role after months of begging Stacy, and he’s a tiny bit nervous? So sue him.)

 _“Drop. It,”_ Peter repeats, more forcefully.

The scientist unclenches his fist, an empty glass vial dropping down onto the ground in front of him.

“Lab staff secure, Parker?” Stacy asks.

Peter eyes him for a few more seconds before looking at Jones and Stacy and giving a small nod.

“Affirmative, boss,” Peter replies smoothly, Jones walking forward to cuff the two scientists.

However, just then everything erupts into chaos as the masked scientist reveals a syringe in his other hand - the hand Peter had somehow _stupidly_ forgotten to double-check.

“No!” Peter cries, forgetting the gun he’s holding and instead rushing forward before he can think to stop.

“Parker, stop!” Jones cries, Stacy echoing her-- but it’s too late anyway. 

Without hesitation the masked scientist plunges the needle into the other scientist’s neck.

The man immediately begins to convulse, foam coming out of his mouth as his face turns red and then purple. Peter is about to kneel down out of instinct to check on him when the masked man suddenly grabs Peter around the neck, swiping his forgotten gun out of his hand and pointing it at Peter’s head.

_Damn it damn it what a rookie mistake--_

The room goes completely still besides the injured scientist, who is writhing and choking on the ground.

With one arm wrapped tightly around Peter’s neck and his back flush against the man’s front, Peter stares with wide eyes first at Agent Stacy - focused on the man holding Peter hostage - and then at Jones who is looking straight back at him, her face carefully blank though her eyes hold a hint of fear.

“Let him go!” Stacy orders, and Peter hears a muffled chuckle in his ear but no reply. 

The masked man starts backing up toward the side exit, pulling Peter along with him.

It’s not until they’re at the door, Brant yelling into the comms and Jones and Stacy watching with carefully controlled rage that Peter finds his voice.

“There’s nowhere to go, man!”

The masked scientist just chuckles again, and Peter is _really_ starting to hate the sound of that sniveling snicker.

“Tell Fury that Dr. No sends his regards,” the man says, Peter’s eyes going impossibly wider.

“You’re Doc--”

Suddenly the man pushes him forward, Peter landing hard on his knees as the criminal shoots Peter’s gun once into the room only to disappear out the exit.

Peter is about to chase after him when he hears Jones cry out, “Oh god, boss!”

Peter twists around to see Agent Stacy on her knees, a hand pressed down on her abdomen, blood leaking between her fingers.

“Oh my god,” Peter breathes out, racing over. Jones gets there first though, clamping a hand down over the bullet wound and turning to Peter with a hard stare.

“Check the civilian,” she grits out between clenched teeth.

Peter gulps but doesn’t argue. He goes over to the fallen scientist, who by now has stopped writhing. Peter puts a hand to his pulse but there’s nothing-- the man is dead.

“Shit, shit, shit!” He mutters to himself just as Hardy and Brant - who had been camped out in the van overseeing the events - rush in. 

“Where’d he go?” Brant asks, and Peter wordlessly points at the side exit. Brant’s glare manages to slice straight through Peter’s chest as she and Hardy race past him, disappearing outside.

By the time they return five minutes later, Agent Stacy has been taken away in an ambulance and the room is flooded with cops and a few more SHIELD agents.

Brant stalks up to Peter, a furious expression on her face. “What the hell was that?”

Peter’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. Before he can form a response Brant is already walking away.

Peter isn’t sure how long he stands there - everyone else handling the crime scene around him - before Jones is suddenly in front of him, wiping her hands with a bloodied towel.

“Come on, Parker. Van’s waiting for you.”

Peter shakes his head, sighing. “I got Stacy shot, Jones. I shouldn’t have moved.”

“You made a choice,” Jones says not unkindly, Peter glancing up at her curiously. He thought for sure she’d chew him out worse than even Fury.

Jones must catch the surprise in his eyes because she immediately adds, “It was the wrong choice, of course-- but it’s the one you made.”

He rolls his eyes at her, but there’s no heat in it. “Yeah, it is.”

They stare at each other for a few more moments, and if Peter didn’t know any better he’d say Jones is looking at him almost _fondly_. But the moment is broken when she turns on her heels, walking back toward the main exit. 

“Now c’mon,” she says, then over her shoulder, “You look like hell, by the way. Ever heard of a thing called a haircut?”

“Well, at least one thing’s normal,” Peter mutters, following behind.

Neither of them notice the empty, open glass container still resting on the lab bench.

* * *

Peter enters the SHIELD conference room at exactly 8am the next day, dark smudges under his eyes and juggling no less than twelve coffee orders in his arms. 

“Morning, Parker,” Hardy says, eagerly taking her caramel macchiato from Peter and gulping half of it down in one go.

“Hey Hardy,” he replies, leaning over to set down the various beverage holders when an arm halts him.

Jones smirks as she grabs her caffè mocha.

“Wow, I didn’t think it was possible but you look even worse than you did last night,” she says, taking a sip only to grimace. “There’s cream in this. I definitely asked for a caffè mocha no cream, Parker.”

“You try keeping a dozen orders straight on two hours of sleep,” Peter retorts.

“Is that your way of apologizing? ‘Cause if so, you kind of suck at it,” Jones says.

“Bite me, Jones.”

Next to them, Hardy lets out a long-suffering groan.

“What?” Peter and Jones ask at the same time.

Before Hardy can respond, Director Fury walks into the room.

“Alright people, we’re going to keep this quick. First, I have an update on Agent Stacy, which I’m sure you’re all eager to hear. I’m delighted to report her doctors expect a full recovery. However, she will be out on medical leave for at least two months, perhaps longer.”

Peter feels relief course through him at the announcement. He still has blood on his hands, but at least that blood didn’t include getting his team leader killed.

“Now, onto the mission outcome. Obviously it wasn’t a total success” - Fury shoots Peter a pointed look - “but it wasn’t a total loss either. The tech department was able to recover some intel from the lab’s servers. Unfortunately, none of it revealed the identity of ring leader Dr. No, but we did find some very interesting documentation related to the upcoming 25th Mr. United States Pageant.”

Everyone in the room starts to murmur at that, a few people chuckling incredulously.

“Calm down, people,” Fury says, and the room goes silent once more. “I won’t say it didn’t raise my eyebrows too. But the documents make clear that some nefarious operation is being planned for during the live ceremony, which is set to take place in only four days. In fact, we have reason to believe Dr. No is planning to graduate to human testing of his serum during or directly following the live event.”

“But-- why a pageant show?” Brant tosses out. “And why at the ceremony? That seems like the opposite of Dr. No’s usual MO.”

“Think about it,” Jones pipes up. “We know that Dr. No is trying to recreate the long-lost Winter Soldier serum, right? Well, where better to find the ideal all-around candidate for the first trial than at the most famous male pageant show in America?”

“That’s my running theory as well, Jones,” Fury says, and Peter doesn’t miss the pride in Jones’ expression at the comment. “As for why at the ceremony, we don’t know. But I think it’s safe to assume there is a mole already in place, either among the pageant show staff or even the contestants. Which brings me to my next announcement.”

The room waits patiently.

“Agent Jones,” Fury begins, “until Agent Stacy is back full-time, you will be heading her ops team as well as overseeing the mission this week. Your team will be heading out tomorrow to Malibu to surveille the proceedings for intel.” 

He pauses, only to add, “You’ve been talking about leading a mission for nearly five years now. Well, here’s your chance.”

Peter doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jones smile like she does then, his own lips tugging up a bit when he catches her eye.

They hold each other’s gaze for a beat longer before she turns back to Fury, features schooled back to cool professionalism.

“I won’t let you down, Director,” she says, Fury giving her a nod of confidence in reply.

“Alright, I think that covers it. Parker, I want you to stay behind. Everyone else, you’re free to go.”

Peter immediately feels his gut twist as the rest of the agents start to make for the door. He feels a hand clasp his shoulder, oddly thinking it might be Jones. But it’s just Hardy-- Jones already out of the room.

“Good luck, Parker,” Hardy says with a smirk before disappearing through the exit, the door closing behind her.

Peter turns back to Fury, who is staring at him in silence. “Director, I am so, so sor--”

“What is it I always say when agents fuck up in the field, Parker?” Fury interrupts.

Peter gulps. _“No apologies, no excuses.”_

“That’s right,” Fury says. “And that was one doozy of an epic fuck-up last night.”

“I know, Director. And I promise I’ll do--”

“A mountain of paperwork while your team is in Malibu? Good, ‘cause that’s what’s going to happen.”

Peter gapes at Fury. “Sir, I know I messed up, but I’ve been assisting with the Dr. No case for months. With all due respect, I’d be of far more use out in California than stuck here at a desk!”

“Last night was your first undercover raid, Parker, and it just as easily could’ve been your last,” Fury says, not at all moved by Peter’s pleas. “A lot more people - including yourself - could have been seriously injured or worse. Bad enough we lost a civilian, and only pure luck Stacy is alive.”

“I understand, sir, but--”

“Last night showed beyond a doubt that you’re not ready for field work, Parker. I’m open to reassessing once the review board looks over the mission documentation, but for now you’re benched.”

When Peter opens his mouth again, Fury adds, “Argue with me one more time, and I’ll take your badge here and now. Do you understand me?”

Peter snaps his jaw shut, forcing himself to stay quiet as he merely nods.

“Good. Now, about that paperwork. I want a full report of last night - fuck-ups included - on my desk by noon. You’re dismissed.”

* * *

“You’re late, Parker.”

Peter all but falls into a chair, rubbing at his eyes. “Had to finish the mission report for Fury. Didn’t even get lunch.”

Jones doesn’t respond, just shoots him an unimpressed look before turning back to Brant and Hardy. 

“So, as I was saying, we head out for Malibu tomorrow evening. The pageant itself runs for three days - among the events are preliminaries, a press conference, a photo shoot and of course the live telecast of the ceremony.”

“So for our purposes, it’s basically a logistical nightmare,” Brant says.

“Pretty much,” Jones agrees, “but Fury is putting his trust in me, and I’m not going to let us fail. With that-- ideas?”

“We should contact the LA SHIELD office - let them know we’re coming and see if we can get any assistance with surveillance, or even extra manpower since we’ll be down two agents,” Hardy says carefully, deliberately not looking at Peter.

“Good idea, Hardy,” Jones says. “Anyone else?”

“You’re going to need more than just extra surveillance or manpower,” Peter chimes in, all three of the other agents turning to look at him questioningly. 

“Go on, Parker,” Jones says after a beat.

“Well, I mean-- it’s a logistical nightmare like Brant said, isn’t it? All these different events, taking place one after another, attended by tens if not hundreds of people,” Peter says, voice growing more confident as he thinks. “So it’s less a matter of surveillance or team size, but of access. You’re going to need someone who can get backstage easily, talk to the staff but particularly the competitors one-on-one-- basically get into all the places only those with the highest level clearance can.”

“You’re talking about someone going undercover as a contestant,” Hardy says, and Peter nods. “But we don’t have anyone on the team who can do that.”

The group is silent for a few moments before Jones speaks up.

“Don’t we? Because I think I know just the guy,” she says, and it takes a good five seconds of her smiling serenely at Peter before he gets her meaning.

“Oh hell no,” Peter argues, shaking his head incredulously. “Even if I wasn’t benched, that’s-- that’s _insane.”_

“Let me just run it by Fury quick,” Jones says, still smiling as she heads for the door and walks out. 

Peter waits for her to come back in, say it was all a joke and have a laugh at his expense. But as the seconds pass and her footsteps keep fading away, he realizes that maybe she in fact _wasn’t_ joking. 

He leaps up out of his chair, nearly tripping over himself as races out the door, Brant and Hardy trying to hide twin sets of giggles.

“You-- you can’t be serious, Jones! C’mon, this is nuts!”

* * *

“This is _nuts,”_ Peter repeats for the twentieth time, looking between Director Fury and Jones who are both standing before him in Fury’s office, arms crossed and expressions determined. 

“So you seriously expect me to parade around in a Speedo like some meathead with a stupid name like _Chadsworth G. Swann the Fourth_ and claim all I want is world peace?” Peter says, chuckling in disbelief. “Excuse me Director, but that’s _crazy.”_

“Alright, that’s enough,” Fury says. “Listen, Parker, this isn’t a discussion. Jones practically had to beg to get you back on this assignment, alright? Like it or not you screwed up and this is your best shot at getting back in my good graces, not to mention sent out into the field again.”

“But I’ve never even watched a pageant!” Peter argues. “I barely work out! I don’t know the first thing about hair care or make-up or-- or self-tanner! Not to mention I _hate_ public speaking.”

“You do have the face for it, though,” Jones says, both Peter and Fury turning to her with raised eyebrows.

Jones just shrugs. “What? I’m not blind.”

They all sit in silence for a moment before Peter sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Let’s just say I say yes to this-- do I really have to do it _all?_ The parading, the shimmering--”

“The twirling, the smiling, the cute little swimsuit number? Yes, Parker,” Fury says. “SHIELD agents don’t do anything half-assed, you know that.”

Peter blows out a slow breath. He looks back and forth between the two other agents before asking in a defeated tone, “Even the Speedo?”

“Definitely the Speedo,” Jones replies with a victorious smirk.

Peter groans, dropping his head into his hands.


	2. The Road to Malibu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My god, this gig is either going to be my _Citizen Kane_ or my _Cats_ , isn’t it?" Stark says, shaking his head. "There will truly be no in between with you.”
> 
> “You’re kind of mean, has anyone ever told you that?” Peter says then, grabbing another pickle.
> 
> “Many times, Mr. Parker,” Stark replies smoothly.

“What could possibly get anyone to enter a pageant is beyond me,” Peter says as he and Jones make their way into the main lobby of Oscorp Tower the next morning.

“Scholarship money, a chance to see the world, broaden your horizons?” Jones offers up.

“Oh sure, because you _totally_ support pageant shows,” Peter says, rolling his eyes. 

“Actually, I competed in local and state pageants until I was fifteen,” Jones replies nonchalantly, Peter whipping his head over to her.

“Really?”

Jones nods. “My mom was - still is - really into that world. She was upset when I told her I wanted to stop, but all the pomp and circumstance just wasn’t for me, y’know? Plus, I didn’t really fit the expected mold of a contestant-- too much make-up just makes me feel like a clown.”

“Oh,” Peter says after a beat, then adds without thinking, “well, personally I like that you don’t wear make-up. The natural look-- it’s nice.”

Michelle side-eyes him, as if trying to answer a question in her mind-- Peter finding himself hoping she doesn’t take his compliment as a joke.

“Thanks, Parker,” she says just as they come up to the main desk, a receptionist greeting them. 

“Hello, we have an appointment with Norman Osborn.”

Ten minutes later they’re being led into an office on the floor dedicated to the Mr. United States Foundation, two men in suits standing up and greeting them.

“Agents Jones and Parker, I presume?” the taller man asks. “I’m Norman Osborn, and this is Roger Harrington, the emcee of the Mr. United States Ceremony for the past eight years.”

They both shake Mr. Harrington’s hand before all four sit down on the office couches, a nervous looking assistant leaving a tray with glasses of water on the coffee table. He turns to face Osborn, who just waves a hand at him.

“You can go now, Harold,” Osborn says dismissively, the assistant nodding as he heads for the door. He jumps when Osborn adds, “And for god sakes, tuck in your shirt!”

Peter gratefully takes one of the water glasses, gulping down half of it only for a few drops to spill on the couch. Hastily he tries to soak up the mess with the hem of his shirt. “Sorry, sorry!”

Jones shoots him a look before turning back to the two men. “I assume you’ve been briefed on the situation, Mr. Osborn.”

“Yes, I’ve been given the basics anyway,” Osborn says, shaking his head. “It’s frankly a dreadful thing, knowing someone is using one of Oscorp’s most successful charitable endeavors for such an evil agenda. Kept me up all night-- just, truly truly terrible.”

“Yes, it is,” Jones says carefully, before going on. “Well, let’s get down to business. We need the organization to make sure our undercover agent gets into the Top 5, so they can have access to all parts of the stage for the full duration of--”

“Absolutely not,” Osborn interrupts.

“Mr. Osborn,” Jones replies, “we understand how important this pageant is to you--”

“Excuse me, this is not merely a _pageant,”_ Osborn interrupts again, looking truly offended. “This is a scholarship program, one of Oscorp’s finest philanthropic efforts and inspired by my own years of competing. I fully intend to maintain that credo.”

“Of course,” Peter chimes in. “We’re here to protect the men - uh, gentlemen - uh, scholarship contestants.”

Osborn eyes him curiously before nodding. “There’s nothing more important to me than the safety of my young men. I’d rather cancel the live telecast than have one of them coerced or worse, _forced_ into illegal experiments.”

“I’m confused,” Harrington says. “What state will he be from? All the winners have already been chosen.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Michelle says reassuringly. “We recently discovered some rather _interesting_ information about Mr. New Jersey related to certain prohibited steroid use.”

“Oh, my. I really quite liked Mr. New Jersey, too,” Harrington says, looking genuinely aggrieved. “Well, do you have an agent in mind?”

Peter, who had just been taking another sip from his glass, chokes on his water-- a few droplets dribbling down his chin as he sets the cup back down and grins at the group.

“That’d be me, sir.”

Osborn lets out an incredulous laugh, but as the seconds go on and nobody speaks his face turns grim. “Surely there’s someone at SHIELD more… _appropriate_ for the occasion?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Osborn,” Peter says, still smiling even as he swipes at his chin with his sleeve. “I won’t let you down.”

Osborn and Harrington look between themselves for a few moments before Osborn turns back to the agents. 

“Let me get you Tony Stark’s number,” Osborn says, pressing a button on the side of the couch only for Harold the Assistant to run in, looking flustered. “He’s a longtime pageant consultant. I believe you might find his expertise, shall we say, _helpful_ as you prepare.”

“That’d be great, Mr. Osborn,” Jones says before Peter can protest. 

Even as they leave he doesn’t argue the issue with Jones-- still unsure if he’d overstepped with his compliment earlier.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s not internally groaning when Jones dials the Stark fellow’s number as soon as they’re back on the sidewalk. 

How much work can it be to prepare for a silly beauty pageant, anyway?

* * *

Tony Stark, as it turns out, is available to meet them as early as lunch. The man had suggested a ritzy Manhattan joint that Peter felt under-dressed for from the moment the host looked him up and down - also taking time to side-eye Michelle’s navy blue suit - before beckoning them to follow with a sneer.

Stark is already there, scrolling through his phone, only glancing up when Jones and Peter are directly in front of him. The man is wearing an impeccably crisp suit, not one hair out of place on his head. 

“Mr. Stark, how are you?” Peter asks with a smile, extending a hand.

Stark stares at the hand before eyeing Peter up and down similarly to how the host had. Even with the sunglasses, his scowl as he takes in Peter’s appearance is clear.

“If you’re Peter Parker, I quit here and now.”

“He cleans up better than you’d think,” Jones says, ignoring Peter’s look of surprise. “And at least stay for lunch-- it’s on SHIELD.”

Stark shrugs. “Why not. I’ve already ordered us some appetizers.”

Peter starts to sit down, only to pause when Jones stays standing. “What’s--”

“I have to take a raincheck - got a thing,” Jones says cryptically-- Peter suspecting there was in reality no such _thing_. “You got this Parker?”

“Oh yeah, that _thing,_ ” Peter replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Sure, I got it.”

Jones just smiles and gives a wave before disappearing back out the doors, Peter watching her go and wishing he could follow.

“So are you hungry?” Stark asks, Peter turning back to him as he sits down.

“Yeah.”

“Yes.”

“Yeah.”

 _“Yes,”_ Stark repeats with emphasis.

“Yeah?” Peter asks, uncertain.

“It is always _yes,_ never _yeah,”_ Stark says, just as the waiter comes and sets a bowl of gherkin pickles on their table along with what looks to be some sort of cheese fondue and a side of bread. “Mr. United States is well-spoken and well-mannered.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, distracted by the food. Immediately he grabs one of the pickles, popping it into his mouth but not before some of the juice drips onto his pants. 

“Oh!” he exclaims, grabbing a napkin and haphazardly dabbing at the stain. When he looks up Stark is watching him with an expression of horror. 

“God, you’re worse than a pig at the trough.”

Peter barely manages not to roll his eyes, instead grabbing a piece of the bread and dipping it in the cheese. 

“So do I really--” he starts to say only to stop and finish chewing as Stark keeps staring him down. He does an exaggerated swallow. “So do I really have to wear a Speedo?”

“Did you have something else in mind?”

“I was just thinking, couldn’t I like, wear long underwear or something? Y’know, something a bit more…” Peter thinks for a moment before snapping his fingers. “Alternative!”

“I’m afraid a onesie is not appropriate for this competition, Mr. Parker,” Stark says, still watching him with a look of faint disgust. “My god, this gig is either going to be my _Citizen Kane_ or my _Cats,_ isn’t it? There will truly be no in between with you.”

“You’re kind of mean, has anyone ever told you that?” Peter says then, grabbing another pickle.

“Many times, Mr. Parker,” Stark replies smoothly. “Did Norman happen to explain my background?”

Peter shakes his head.

“I was once considered the best of the best in the male pageant consultant world. Ten out of eleven years my contestant won Mr. United States. The one year we lost it was to a one-armed army veteran,” Stark says, taking a pickle of his own then. “And as I’m sure you know-- it’s virtually _impossible_ to beat a one-armed army veteran.”

Peter in fact doesn’t know, but figures that seems fair.

“Then, about seven years ago, I coached a man named Steve Rogers. He’d already won the Captain America military pageant that year, and was considered a sure bet.” 

Stark takes another careful bite of his pickle, not continuing until he finished swallowing and taken a rather dainty sip of his wine. “But, I’m afraid Steve froze during his frisbee target throwing talent routine which led to a frankly pitiful tenth place that he then went on to publicly blame me for. The man went straight to _Pageant Magazine_ and told them his loss was a direct result of the constant pressure and harassment my tutelage had inflicted.”

Peter doesn’t say anything as the man dabs at his face with a napkin, before sighing and leaning back in his chair. “I’ve had trouble with finding worthwhile pageant trainees ever since.”

“So why did Mr. Osborn suggest you?” Peter asks.

“Because I’m the best in the business,” Stark says with an exaggerated grin before turning more serious and following up with, “...or perhaps because everyone else worth hiring already has a contestant.”

Before Peter can respond Stark continues, “They all have their southern hunks, their midwestern farmers, their spunky western cowboys… and I have the assistant supervisor of the local Best Buy Geek Squad. But don’t worry, Mr. Parker.” 

Stark takes another sip of his wine before winking at Peter. 

“We’ll make a winner of you yet.”

* * *

“Jesus. I haven’t seen a walk like that since Jurassic Park.”

“This walk has been working just fine for me for the last 27 years, thank you very much.”

It’s that same evening, and the team along with Stark is in one of SHIELD’s jets, on their way to Malibu where the pageant takes place every year. Tony still has a mansion out there, which is where he offered to host “the transformation.”

Peter has no idea what _the transformation_ entails, but he figures it’s nothing good.

He had hoped to just sleep on the way, but Stark had insisted on starting to practice his walk right away, to Peter’s chagrin. Which is how they were in one of the aisles, the other team members observing while pretending not to.

Peter swears he saw Hardy taking a video at one point, but by the time he’d looked over again her phone was nowhere to be seen.

“No, no, no,” Stark says, not for the first time. “Remember, you must _glide.”_

For the umpteenth time Peter starts walking down the aisle.

“Glide, glide-- yes! You’re doing… no wait, not like that-- it’s not Disney on ice!”

Peter goes back up the aisle...

“Yes, you are gliding finally! Ah, don’t forget-- your chin must always be parallel to the floor!”

...and back down the aisle.

“Don’t pick your feet up! Why are you picking your feet up?”

“Because I want to run away?” Peter murmurs, Stark glaring at him through his designer sunglasses.

“Okay, now watch me again, and particularly the buttocks-- it’s all in the buttocks,” Stark says confidently, striding down the aisle and doing a perfect sashay at the end before starting to come back up just as smoothly. “See? Don’t I look so _handsome,_ so _refined?_ Don’t I look like a winner?”

“I mean, yeah - _yes_ ,” Peter says with a sigh when Stark finally gets to the end. “Now can I please go? My hips hurt from all the swiveling.”

Stark frowns. “Let’s move on to videos.”

Ten minutes later finds the two of them sitting in front of a laptop, watching Steve Rogers accept his Captain America crown and sash in an ocean blue tuxedo with a bright red bow-tie.

The look shouldn’t work, but even Peter can admit-- it really does.

“See? Light as air, like he’s walking on a cloud!” Stark says with an oddly nostalgic smile as he watches Rogers walk across the stage, waving to the crowd. “I never had to help Steve with his walk-- the man just had a natural talent for it, not to mention a damn good ass.”

“You know, Mr. Stark-- for someone who claims to hate Steve Rogers, you sure seem to like him a lot,” Peter quips, earning a glare from Stark.

“It was a love/hate relationship, okay?” he says, standing up and ignoring the way Peter chuckles at his annoyance.

“Just keep studying, underoos,” he orders, pointing two fingers up at his own eyes and then back at Peter as if to say _I’m watching you_ before walking over to the corner of the cabin where Jones sits.

“How’s our boy doing, Mr. Stark?” she asks, carefully hiding a smirk. Just like Hardy and Brant, she’d witnessed the disaster that was Peter’s pageant walk firsthand.

Stark sighs as he glances back up at Peter, who was currently performing a very dramatic rendition of Rogers accepting his crown-- sobs and whispered _thank yous_ and all. He turns back to Jones.

“With some intensive work, by the time the ceremony begins he’ll be ready for the world’s finest local Dunk-A-Hunk charity throw competition.”

* * *

They arrive in Malibu around midnight, disembarking from the jet and heading straight for Tony’s mansion on the coast. 

Peter isn’t sure quite what to expect when they pull up, but it’s definitely not to find a host of vans already parked, along with tens of people moving terrifyingly unidentifiable pieces of equipment inside.

“What’s all this?” Jones asks.

“My assistants for the transformation,” Stark replies, as if it’s obvious. “Along with all the standard tools of the trade.”

Peter sees someone carrying what looks like a tree floor lamp inside - for what purpose he has no idea - and wonders if it’s too late to back out.

“So, uh, what all do you have planned?” he asks.

“Just the usual-- manicure, pedicure, haircut and color, and of course dental work,” Stark says as they walk inside, standing among the bustle of no less than twenty beauty technicians. 

“What’s wrong with my teeth?” Peter asks, bringing a hand to his mouth.

“The Dr. Pepper stains and Lucky Charms residue, for starters,” Stark replies, Brant and Hardy giggling behind him. “Let’s see, what else are we do-- oh! You’ll also need a spray tan - probably two coats - but that won’t come until after the waxing.”

 _“Waxing?”_ Peter screeches, Stark simply raising an eyebrow at him.

“Did I stutter?”

“Fine,” Peter grits out. “But if anyone goes near my butt hole I’m quitting.”

“Therefore, anything but an anal wax… it’s a deal.”

Peter winces. “Why doesn’t that response make me feel better?”

Stark ignores him, instead clapping his hands together excitedly and rubbing his palms.

“Let’s get started, people!”

* * *

What ensues as the night wears on is like something out of a bad acid trip. Peter is poked, prodded, shaved, waxed, glistened, sprayed, and starved. 

(Okay, perhaps _starved_ was a bit melodramatic, but Peter was handed a caesar salad for dinner while everyone else got pizza and there is no excuse for that, there just _isn’t.)_

It doesn’t help that Stark oversees the entire production, at different points calling out various orders to the technicians that have Peter heavily side-eyeing the man even as someone places cucumber slices over his eyes.

_“Do keep the curls please, Bernadita. We need the angelic look intact for as long as possible-- once he speaks it’s all over.”_

_“The eyebrows, oh dear. Yes, there should be two, Oscar.”_

_“Oh my, well if that’s the best we can do on his toenails, Jennifer, then it’ll have to do. If only I had a week instead of one night...”_

Peter is in the middle of getting a facial when Jones saunters over, still eating a piece of pizza.

“Alright, Parker, while you can’t move I figured I’d run a few things by you,” she says, taking a slow, savoring bite while Peter watches with narrowed eyes. He’s half surprised she doesn’t add an exaggerated moan just to torture him further.

“What’s the plan, Jones?”

“We’re going to set up surveillance in room 113 of the hotel attached to the conference center hosting the pageant, which is also where you and the other contestants will be staying. As soon as you’re done with all this, I’ll be handing over a pin with a mic which you will need to wear at all possible times, along with your pageant ID badge.”

Jones flashes the latter up just long enough for Peter to catch the name.

“Chadsworth G. Swann the Fourth? Are you kidding me?”

“I thought you liked that name,” Jones replies with faux-obliviousness, smirking.

Peter rolls his eyes, deliberately not smirking back-- not wanting to give her the satisfaction of his amusement.

“The power has clearly already gone to your head, Jones.”

“What can I say, Parker?” Jones says, taking another bite of her pizza and letting out a hum of pleasure, Peter narrowing his eyes. It’s all he can do not to snatch the slice right out of her hands. 

“Being team leader has its perks.”

* * *

Six hours later, Peter is finally deemed pageant-ready by Stark.

He’d only just gotten a look at himself in a mirror as he put on the custom three-piece suit and platform oxfords Stark had laid out for him in one of the man’s many guest bedrooms, and Peter had to admit-- Stark hadn’t done a bad job.

Peter’s curls are highlighted perfectly and gelled back to a smooth sheen, his teeth are whiter than they’d been since at least sophomore year of college, and he’s wearing some shimmer on his face that - he isn’t too proud to say - make his cheeks positively _glow._

He’s still admiring himself when there’s a knock at the door. 

“Mr. Parker? I’m afraid your Agent Jones is getting a bit impatient waiting outside.”

Peter opens the door to see Stark looking impeccably dressed himself, eyebrows raised as he takes in Peter.

“My _god,_ I’m good.”

Peter follows Stark out into the great room, pausing for just a minute to shake hands with all the various technicians before they head out into the sunny morning.

Jones, Brant and Hardy are standing around the van they’d all driven over in the night before.

“What could possibly be taking so long?” Peter hears Brant ask just as Hardy notices them approaching, her jaw unhinging at the sight.

“Damn Parker, is that really you?” Hardy asks with a shit-eating grin before turning to Stark. “I swear, Stark-- you’re a damn miracle worker.”

Peter rolls his eyes, a deep exhaustion hitting him even as Brant hands him a coffee. 

“I have been primped to death, groomed to perfection, jabbed to hell, had sticky crap far too close to various orifices for comfort, and I am absolutely starving. Please, Hardy, not today.”

With an exchange of raised eyebrows Brant and Hardy climb into the van, Peter catching Jones lingering as she continues to look Peter over before their gazes catch-- something in Jones’ eyes making Peter’s heart flutter as he starts to make his way over to her…

...only to trip over himself on the driveway, coffee drenching the front of his new suit.

Peter awkwardly stumbles back to his feet, Stark letting out an exasperated sigh behind him.

“When wearing platforms, perhaps it’s not _all_ in the buttocks,” the man says miserably, before calling for the wardrobe stylist.


	3. Rhode Island and Rihanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey now--”
> 
> “I was not told to provide a talent,” Stark barks out, speaking right over Peter. “And I am certainly not equipped to do so in the next five hours.”
> 
> “What are you talking about?” Jones asks.
> 
> “I’m saying that tomorrow morning Mr. Parker will be on stage for the talent preliminary and have nothing to do but convert oxygen into carbon dioxide!” Stark practically screeches.

Stark and Peter arrive at the hotel and conference center only minutes before the pageant’s breakfast orientation is scheduled to begin. The others had gotten there about a half hour earlier and were already camped out in the surveillance hotel room.

Peter double-checks that the LGBT ally pin - complete with mic - is affixed properly to his new, coffee-less suit as they get out of the car and gather their bags from the trunk. 

They’re heading for the lobby when Stark abruptly comes to a halt, Peter walking right into his back and dropping one of the many garment bags he’s carrying.

“What’s the--”

“Why, if it isn’t the great Tony Stark.”

Peter’s head whips up to see none other than Steve Rogers ambling up to them. He doesn’t seem to even notice Peter, just stares at Tony with no small amount of disdain.

“Steven,” Stark says with forced casualness. “And how is your Mr. Kentucky?”

“Prepared to win, naturally,” Rogers replies, voice equally measured as he finally notices Peter. “Can’t say I knew you were consulting again.”

“A bit of a last-minute gig but I’m proud to say that Chadsworth here is beyond a doubt the _best_ young man I have ever had the pleasure to coach,” Stark says, putting a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder.

Rogers doesn’t respond right away, and looking between the two of them Peter wonders if this is how Hardy and Brant feel, watching him and Jones pretend to despise one another-- only to wonder a moment later where that thought even came from. 

“Nice to meet you, Chadsworth. I’m Steve.”

Peter realizes that Rogers is holding out a hand to him. He smirks as he takes it, catching Stark’s suspicious gaze for a moment before looking back at Rogers.

“Chadsworth Swann, sir,” Peter says. “What an _honor_ it is to make your acquaintance. Mr. Stark talks about you all the time.”

“He does?” Rogers asks, Peter not missing the way his eyes flicker to Stark, who is glaring at Peter with narrowed eyes.

Peter nods enthusiastically. “Oh yes, _all_ the time. Can I just say how much I admire your pageant walk? Mr. Stark was right, you really do have the best bu--”

“Ah, look at the time!” Stark interrupts, putting an arm around Peter and beginning to forcefully lead him in the direction of the lobby again. “Lovely as always to see you Steven, but I’m afraid we must get young Chadsworth here to the orientation breakfast.”

“Nice to see you as well, Tony,” Rogers replies, looking almost dazed as he watches the two of them walk away.

“Remember what I said about Mr. United States always being well-mannered?” Tony whispers furiously in Peter’s ear. “That was decidedly _not_ well-mannered, Mr. Parker.”

“Neither was all the waxing,” Peter replies with a smug smile, Stark’s lips thinning as he glares at him.

“Off to the orientation with you, underoos,” the man finally says as they hoist all their bags onto a luggage cart.

Peter doesn’t need telling twice, making his way to the dining hall where a giant banner proclaiming WELCOME GENTLEMEN! YOU’RE ALL WINNERS! Is hung above the door. Peter spots Osborn’s looming assistant Harold just below it, marking down contestants as they enter the room.

Harold does a double-take when he sees Peter, but otherwise doesn’t directly acknowledge him-- just hands Peter a sash that reads _New Jersey_ and nods for him to continue in.

Peter is one of the last to arrive, finding most of the tables are already full. 

He’s about to go sit along one of the walls when a voice calls out, “Hey! Hey New Jersey! This one’s empty!”

Peter turns to see a dark-haired man - _Rhode Island,_ his sash proclaims - waving him over. 

“I’m Edward Leeds, but you can call me Ned,” the kid says with a friendly grin before Peter is even fully in his chair.

“Hi Ned, I’m Chads--”

“-worth G. Swann the Fourth!” Ned fills in, looking proud of himself. “I memorized everyone’s profiles in the pageant app. Yours was the last to go up so I only saw it this morning, but I know all 49 guys - well, 50, including myself.”

Peter laughs, surprised at how genuine it is. He barely knows Ned but Peter already knows he really likes the guy. "You can call me Chad."

“Everyone, meet Chad,” Ned says, pointing to each of them. “That’s Flash Thompson from Hawaii, Brad Davis from New York, and Jason Ionello from Texas.”

Peter stands up to exchange handshakes and hellos with the three before sitting back down again. 

“I just want everyone to know that I believe what that sign outside the banquet hall says,” Jason says then. “We are all winners.”

“Whatever, man. I came here to be on top, same as you,” Flash says, “Especially coming from Hawaiii-- the small states could use a win once in a while.”

“That’s so true!” Ned pipes up. “Us Rhode Islanders--”

“I wasn’t finished, dweeb,” Flash says, sneering at Ned.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” Ned says in a small voice, Peter already feeling his hackles rise. Just as quickly as he decided he liked Ned, he already knows he can’t stand Flash.

“Don’t apologize to him, Ned,” Peter says, Flash’s expression morphing into a sneer as he glares at Peter. “The fumes from his hair spray are no doubt affecting him.”

Flash opens his mouth to spit out a retort but never gets the chance as just then applause sounds, everyone at the table turning to see Mr. Osborn walking up to the podium. Harold is already there fiddling with the microphone, but Osborn gives him a slight shove and the assistant scuttles off the stage.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” Osborn says with a grin. “For the past 25 years it’s been my honor to serve as president of the Mr. United States Foundation. Looking out at all you fine gentlemen I have no doubt this will be our best year yet.”

More applause, this time led by Ned-- Peter clapping halfheartedly when the young man looks over at him with an expression of pure delight. 

“Now, as much as I’d love to go on, I’m afraid I can’t keep you. After the orientation and a photoshoot, you’ll be able to settle into your rooms. Tomorrow we will begin the preliminaries hosted by our Master of Ceremonies, Mr. Roger Harrington!”

Yet more applause as Harrington waves from where he’s seated at one of the front tables.

Ned leans in to whisper into Peter’s ear. “I heard this was going to be his last year. Mr. Osborn fired him, but they haven’t announced it yet.”

“Oh really?” Peter says, filing that away to mention to Jones later in case she hadn’t heard through the mic.

“Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” Osborn says then, only to add, “And although I am _most_ curious to find out who among you is the one and true Mr. United States, don’t forget-- you’re _all_ winners to me.”

* * *

Later that night, Peter is in his hotel room and about to get ready for bed when there’s a knock at his door. Peter sighs, turning toward the door.

“I promise I was just about do the skincare routine, Mr.-- Ned?”

“Hi Chad!” Ned greets. He’s wearing a robe over some silk pajamas and bunny slippers, and carrying a mug and two glasses.

“What--what are you doing here?” Peter asks.

“I thought you might want some of my world famous hot chocolate!” Ned replies, Peter not missing the hopeful look in his eyes.

“Oh, um, sure. Come on in.”

Peter walks ahead of Ned as they go further into his hotel room, hastily throwing his discarded suit coat over the desk where all his SHIELD gear is laid out. Ned doesn’t even seem to notice, just plops down on the bed and starts pouring hot chocolate into the glasses.

“I tried Brad and Jason but they both said no thanks, and Flash just slammed the door in my face,” Ned says amiably, handing Peter a glass when he sits down beside him.

“Here’s to world peace!” Ned calls out, clinking his glass with Peter’s before taking a very careful sip.

“Yeah, world peace,” Peter says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster-- which is not much, considering he hasn’t slept in nearly two days. 

They sit in silence for a moment before Ned goes on, voice a bit softer. “So, I actually wanted to say thank you for the way you stood up to Flash for me today.”

“Don’t mention it,” Peter says, shrugging. “The guy was being a jerk.”

“Still, that’s how I know you’re gonna win,” Ned says, smiling. “You’re a fighter! I’m not brave enough to do anything like that.”

Peter’s brow furrows. “What makes you think you can’t win?”

When Ned looks away, not replying, Peter continues, “You have just as much a chance as anyone, Ned. I mean, you obviously believe in yourself enough to have gotten this far, right?”

Ned turns back to him with a ridiculously grateful expression, taking another sip of his hot chocolate before speaking. “Wow… you’re so nice and smart and sensitive. Thanks Chad.”

Before Peter can respond Ned glances at the radio clock on Peter’s nightstand and jumps up. “Oh, I didn’t realize it was so late! Miss Romanoff - that’s my consultant - wants me in bed by nine every night of the competition so I can be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning!”

Peter stands up, following Ned to his hotel room door. “Have a good night, Ned. And don’t forget what I said, okay? Because I really do mean it - you can definitely win this.”

“Thanks, Chad. You’re the best!” Ned says fondly before walking away, Peter softly shutting the door.

He stares at the bed for a few moments - longing to flop down onto it - before trudging to the bathroom and starting the absurdly intricate nightly skincare routine Stark demanded he complete.

He’s still wearing a peel when there’s another knock on his door.

“Ned, I’m sorry but I-- oh, hey Jones.”

“C’mon Parker,” Jones says, not bothering with pleasantries. “Stark needs you in the auditorium.”

“What? Now? I’m about to go to bed.”

“Not anymore,” Jones quips, Peter sighing exhaustedly as he looks back at his bed.

“Couldn’t we just wait a few--”

“Nope. Now go scrub off whatever’s molding on your face - we gotta go.”

* * *

“Don’t ever look down. And remember, your thighs should be touching-- touching, not clenching!”

Peter rolls his eyes as he descends the pageant show stairs for what feels like the millionth time. When he gets to the bottom he turns to Stark, who continues to stare at Peter’s platformed feet in mild disgust.

“Always keep a slight gap between your calves and your ankles-- the stance gives a commanding presence.” 

“Right now there’s a gap between my brain and my spinal cord, and the only command it has is to pass out,” Peter says with a yawn. “Now can I please go to bed, Mr. Stark? We’ve been at this all night.”

Stark looks like he wants to argue, but instead he just nods. “Alright. I suppose you do need rest if you’re going to get rid of those unbecoming bags under your eyes.”

“Finally you see things my way,” Peter replies with a smirk.

“Not something that will happen often, I feel confident in saying,” Stark replies, looking out over the auditorium and sighing before turning back to Peter. “So tell me, what are you doing for your talent tomorrow? Opera singing? Ventriloquism? Chewing with your mouth closed?”

Peter shrugs. “Whatever you want me to do, Obi-Wan.”

Stark gives him an incredulous look, before stalking off toward where Jones is sitting in the auditorium’s front row, typing away on her tablet.

“Agent Jones! This young man has no talent!”

Jones looks up, face blank. “I don’t disagree with you Stark, but you don’t have to shout it right in front of him.”

Peter scowls. “Hey now--”

“I was not told to provide a talent,” Stark barks out, speaking right over Peter. “And I am certainly not equipped to do so in the next five hours.”

“What are you talking about?” Jones asks.

“I’m saying that tomorrow morning he will be on stage for the talent preliminary and have nothing to do but convert oxygen into carbon dioxide!” Stark practically screeches.

“You also said you couldn’t make him pageant-ready overnight, and look at him now,” Jones says, gesturing to Peter. “Perfectly handsome.”

Peter can’t help the surprised smile at the compliment, but before he can bask in it Jones adds, “I mean, compared to the train wreck he was before.”

Peter’s smile falls. “Frankly not a big fan of this honesty hour, guys.”

“My duties are clearly stated in the contract and I have fulfilled them all,” Stark says forcefully, still ignoring Peter.

“Stark, there’s really no need to be obstinate--"

“I’m not being obstinate, I’m being realistic! There is nothing that can be done--”

“Well, there is one thing,” Peter interrupts, both Jones and Stark finally turning to look at him. “I mean, I haven’t done it since college, but I still know how it goes. It’ll be as easy as riding a bike for me to perform.”

“Oh god,” Stark says with a groan, bringing a hand to his eyes. “You are _not_ having sex on stage.”

“I wasn’t talking about sex,” Peter replies, rolling his eyes. “I’m talking about _Rihanna.”_

Stark lifts his head, an eyebrow arching curiously. “Go on.”

* * *

An hour later Jones and Peter are making their way back to their hotel rooms-- Jones carrying a bag of breakfast donuts for her, Brant and Hardy to eat in a few hours.

As it turned out, Tony “a onesie is not appropriate for this competition” Stark had quite liked Peter’s idea to perform an old dance number he’d done for a charity fundraiser back at Columbia, calling it “novel” and “eye-catching.” 

Despite the man’s earlier arguments about the talent portion not being part of his contract, he’d been more than willing to arrange for Peter’s costume to be hastily sewn and delivered.

“Did I tell you Roger Harrington is getting fired?” Peter asks Jones, yawning as they come to a stop outside his motel room door. 

“Don’t worry, I’m on it,” Jones replies. “You just concentrate on being Chadsworth, okay?”

“I’m trying,” Peter mutters, starting to slide his key card. “Night, Jones.”

“Parker.”

Peter turns back to see Jones looking down at the floor, seemingly wrestling with something before she meets his gaze again.

“You do know you’re doing a great job, right? I thought your walk tonight was actually pretty good.”

Peter smiles softly. “You really think so?”

Jones smiles back. “I really do.”

There’s a charged silence between them for a few moments before Peter pulls an exaggerated scoff. “Wow, did Michelle Jones just compliment me and it wasn’t followed up by an insult? What alternate universe did I just walk into?”

Jones takes a step forward, punching him in the arm good-naturedly. “Shut up, dumbass.”

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but Peter can’t help it when he replies, “Just admit it, Jones-- you’re attracted to me.”

Jones freezes then, right in Peter’s space. Her gaze turns serious as she leans in slowly, Peter finding his lips parting as he starts to close his eyes--

Only for Jones to lean back suddenly and take a big bite out of one of the donuts from her bag. 

“Mmm,” she moans, not even bothering to swallow before adding, “Man, I love donuts.”

With that she begins to walk down the hallway, leaving Peter alone in his doorway with only his grumbling stomach for company.

“Enjoy the rest of your night, Parker,” she calls over her shoulder, Peter sputtering.

“You’re a real jerk, Jones!” he throws back.

He waits until the hotel room door is closed before leaning against it with a soft sigh, fondly shaking his head.

* * *

The talent preliminaries were scheduled for 10 AM, taking place at a stage set up in the conference center’s outdoor pavilion. 

Peter wakes up at 9:30 to a knock on his door, only to see a bellhop had delivered his finished costume-- genuinely impressed that Stark had managed to arrange for the custom skin-tight outfit to be completed in less than five hours.

He makes it out to the back staging area with only ten minutes to spare before his routine, Stark hastily arranging Peter’s wig and gussying him up - “a bit of extra rose blush never did anyone with your deathly complexion wrong” - before making his way over to where Ned stood amongst the other contestants, wearing a bright blue marching band costume and holding two batons.

“Hey Chad!” Ned greets him, affable as ever. “Did you have a good night’s sleep?”

“Not the best, actually,” Peter replies honestly. “But that’s okay, I’m ready for today. You?”

“Kinda nervous, to be honest,” Ned says, an anxious giggle escaping him. “Brad did this amazing flute rendition of _Toxic_ , did you hear it?”

Peter shakes his head.

“The audience loved it, they all clapped for way longer than anyone ever has for my routine before.” Ned’s smile falls just a bit then, before brightening back up. “But Miss Romanoff said to just go out there and have fun, and not worry what the judges think.”

Peter smiles reassuringly. “You’re going to do great Ned, I know it.”

“Thanks, Chad,” Ned answers sincerely, only for Harrington to announce Mr. Rhode Island over the speakers right after.

“Wish me luck!” Ned calls back as he walks onto the stage to cheers, Peter throwing up two thumbs that had Ned grinning before he disappeared from Peter’s view.

As he listens to the audience _oooh_ and _ahhh_ at Ned’s performance, Peter catches sight of Osborn standing just to the side of the stage, looking rather upset and saying something harsh and quick into his assistant Harold’s ear before the younger man darts away and out of sight. 

Even with how pissed off Fury is with him, Peter doesn’t envy Harold having to work under Norman. The man seems like a real jerk underneath the thick veneer of charm. 

He’s pulled out his thoughts when Harrington suddenly announces, “And now we have Mr. New Jersey, performing a dance number to _Umbrella_ by the one and only Rihanna! Take it away, New Jersey!”

With a deep breath, Peter steps past the curtains and into the middle of the stage, trying hard not to blush at his get-up. He looks around the crowd, spotting Brant and Hardy near the back, while Jones is closer to the front.

Something about the way Jones is looking at him - not quite smiling but gaze somehow still radiating encouragement - calms Peter’s nerves, and he’s able to get into position with his umbrella prop over his head, nodding to the DJ on the left.

_“You have my heart, and we’ll never be worlds apart, maybe in magazines, but you’ll still be my star…”_

* * *

Five minutes later, the audience is cheering loudly as Peter lands gracefully on his back in time to the final beat of the song, breathing heavily from all the dancing. 

After a few moments he jumps back to his feet, smiling widely. He can hear Hardy clapping and whooping but sees Brant first--Brant who is staring at Peter with a look of utter shock, her jaw slack. 

Peter gives her a sly wink before turning to look for Jones, only to find that she’s no longer standing where she was before.

An odd feeling hits Peter at the idea that she missed his routine, only for him to shake his head as he starts to bow to the cheering crowd. 

Because _surely_ the feeling isn’t one of disappointment that Jones might have missed him twerking to Rihanna, of all things-- definitely not. 

He just wants to know his team leader thinks he’s doing a good job with his undercover gig, that’s all. Peter would have wanted the same approval from Stacy too. 

Yeah, that’s definitely it, Peter tells himself as he starts to walk off stage.

Still, he glances up one last time toward where Jones had been, looking around expectantly for her familiar face-- only to see a random man in the crowd staring back at him, expression hard.

Peter’s eyes widen as he realizes what the man is wearing: a t-shirt with the 1962 James Bond _Dr. No_ movie poster printed on it

Yet before Peter can think of what - if anything - he should do, he sees the man reaching into his pocket and pulling out a long, skinny object.

“Oh no,” Peter breathes out.

The man is holding a _syringe._

Peter’s eyes dart around frantically even as the man - who can only be Dr. No, _shitshitshit_ \- starts to raise the syringe up as if to jab one of the audience members.

There’s movement just to the left of Dr. No then, and Peter realizes with horror that it’s Jones trying to make her way to the front-- gaze focused on Peter and radiating concern. 

She’d probably seen Peter freeze up and gotten worried, and oh _god,_ what if the man is targeting her and she doesn’t see it coming--

The man raises the syringe higher--

_“Stop!”_ Peter cries out, before lunging off the stage and tackling Dr. No to the ground.


	4. The Bare Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I refuse to give in to your cynicism," Osborn sneers, glaring down at Peter. "That’s why I have dedicated almost the entirety of Oscorp’s philanthropic efforts to this scholarship foundation, and to helping the very best and brightest young men - one of which you _clearly_ are not - achieve their full potential. No one’s going to ruin that, not this year, not ever.”
> 
> Osborn leans down until their noses are almost touching, voice a venomous whisper. “You get in my way, I will end you. Do you understand?”

The footage currently playing on the conference room television shows Peter, still in his dance costume and standing awkwardly next to a reporter holding a mic.

_“This is Grace Freebush with MVLY News at Noon. In a bizarre incident at the Mr. United States Talent Preliminaries this morning, the contestant from New Jersey leapt off-stage and tackled a man in the crowd who was attempting to use a vape pen. He’s here with me right now. Mr. Swann, can you tell us what you were thinking when you jumped off stage?”_

_“Well, all the contestants are actively involved in ending nicotine dependence. I think the gentleman will think twice before he vapes again,”_ Peter replies, grinning awkwardly at the camera and giving a half-hearted thumbs up.

The reporter nods along - a painful grimace on her face - before turning back to the camera, all smiles.

_“I’m sure we all will think twice after today. Back to you, Ken, for an update on--”_

Osborn flips off the television before turning an expectant glare on Peter who glances around to see similar expressions on the faces of Jones, Brant and Hardy.

“Look, for the last time-- I thought he had a syringe!” he argues, mainly addressing Osborn. “You didn’t see what happened to the last person Dr. No put a needle into.”

“This is _preposterous,”_ Osborn seethes, throwing his hands up. “You people are completely clueless! If I ran my ceremony like this we’d be holding it in someone’s basement!”

“Every operation is bound to have its bumps, Mr. Osborn,” Jones says, voice calm and measured.

“As far as I can see, he’s still with us!” Osborn retorts, gesturing wildly at Peter before leaning over the conference room table.

When he glances back up his expression is once again controlled. “Can I please have a moment alone with Mr. Parker? Just a tiny minute, if you don’t mind.”

Jones looks over at Peter - who is shaking his head back and forth - then back at Osborn.

“Sure thing,” she replies with a smile, ignoring Peter’s mutinous glare and leaving the room, Brant and Hardy following her.

Peter waits until the door is shut before looking back at Osborn with a long, frustrated sigh. “Look, I know I made a mistake, and I said I was sorry.”

If anything Osborn looks even more enraged at Peter’s words-- coming around the table and wagging a finger in Peter’s face.

“I’ve been fighting against men like you my whole life,” Osborn says with a sneer. “The pompous slobs who parade around, proud of the fact they don’t give a damn how they appear to others. You obviously think you’re above all this, it’s written all over you.”

Peter has to fight the urge to look away when Osborn’s eyes narrow.

“But I refuse to give in to your cynicism. That’s why I have dedicated almost the entirety of Oscorp’s philanthropic efforts to this scholarship foundation, and to helping the very best and brightest young men - one of which you _clearly_ are not - achieve their full potential. No one’s going to ruin that, not this year, not ever.”

Osborn leans down until their noses are almost touching, voice a venomous whisper. “You get in my way, I will end you. Do you understand?”

Peter’s eyes widen at the threat. He knew the pageant meant a lot to Osborn, but threatening a SHIELD agent? The man was _obsessed._

“I understand, yeah,” Peter finally replies, standing up. 

He’s about to head out when he catches Osborn’s eye-- the man pinning him with a deeply unimpressed look. _“Yeah?”_

Peter rolls his eyes. “God, you too? Fine, whatever-- _yes.”_

* * *

An hour later Peter is knocking on Stark’s hotel room door to practice for the interview, wishing he was literally anywhere else. He was in no mood to be lectured about his inflection or word choice or whatever the hell Stark would find to harangue him about after the tongue-lashing he’d gotten from Osborn. 

Not to mention Brant had gleefully informed him that Fury had seen Peter’s “anti-vaping commercial” and flying out to Malibu later in the day to get things “under control.”

If that wasn’t enough, Jones had disappeared straight back to the surveillance room before Peter even finished talking to Osborn-- probably blaming Peter for getting Fury involved.

So yes, in short-- Peter was _not_ in the mood.

“Now, the interview is the single most important part of the pageant,” Stark says by way of greeting, motioning for Peter to sit down on the double bed across from him. “It accounts for thirty percent of your total score both in prelims and again in the top five.”

“Yeah and what’s the other seventy percent? Muscles?” Peter grumbles. 

“And remember,” Stark goes on, ignoring Peter which just pisses him off more. “No slouching, neck up, and don’t forget: smilers wear a crown, losers wear a frown.”

Peter gives Stark a mock grin as he says between gritted teeth, “You have no idea how much I want to leave right now.”

“As long as you smile,” Stark says, looking through the practice question cards. “Alright, ah, here’s one. Why is New Jersey called the Garden State?”

“Because you can’t fit the Oil and Petrochemical State on a license plate?” Peter sarcastically replies, fluttering his eyelashes at Stark which is when the man finally, _finally_ shows his annoyance.

Stark sets down the questions cards before turning back to Peter with a disapproving frown. “You know, I really don’t appreciate these immature and unhelpful quips of yours when I am working my hardest for you.”

“I just don’t see what the big deal is,” Peter lashes out, his pent-up emotions boiling over. “It’s fixed, I’m in the top five, ‘congratulations’ to me.”

“Have you no pride in yourself, or your presentation?” Stark asks, throwing up his hands. 

Hearing Stark say _pride_ reminds Peter of Osborn’s earlier taunts, and it takes everything in him to remain calm when he says, “Look, Mr. Stark. I like science, and building things, and being a SHIELD agent. This whole world - being a monkey on a stage - it’s just not _me.”_

“You could at least do without being so obviously scornful,” Stark replies, scoffing. 

Peter stands up from the bed, pointing a finger at himself. _“I’m_ scornful? When every word out of your mouth is dripping with disdain toward me? You’re a grumpy elitist, just admit it.”

“Yes, but at least I’m a _sincere_ grumpy elitist, whereas you’re just putting on a bullshit act that nobody is buying,” Stark says, also standing up. “You comport yourself as if you’re better than everyone up there on that stage with you, but you know all I see? All I see is a scared young man terrified of taking risks.”

Peter sputters for a few moments, trying and failing to think of what to say to defend himself. The fact is that he’d kind of come to like and admire Stark despite everything, and the man’s words-- well, they _hurt._

But Peter can’t let himself dwell on that emotion, instead pushing the hurt down and covering it back up with his anger and vitriol.

“You know what? I didn’t come here to be insulted by some has-been hack,” Peter spits out at the older man, stalking to the door and flinging it open.

“I’m done!” he yells, not bothering to look back at Stark and letting the door slam behind him.

* * *

Peter practically bursts through the hotel room door.

“I’m done, Jones. I quit!”

“I really don’t need this right now, Parker,” Jones says from where she’s situated in front of the hidden camera surveillance monitors, not so much as glancing up at Peter.

“That’s what I’m saying-- you don’t need _me,”_ Peter says, Jones finally turning to look at him with furrowed brows. _“_ I’m screwing up left and right, and then on top of that Stark and I just had a fight and he said something that…”

_Hit a little too close to home._

Peter shakes his head, waving a hand in the air. “It doesn’t matter what he said. What matters is that I’m obviously not the right guy for this assignment. I don’t even know why you picked me in the first place.”

“Well, you were the only dude on my team. Kind of a prerequisite for this field role,” Jones deadpans, Peter sighing tiredly in response. 

“Oh, c’mon. You could have easily picked another SHIELD agent. I can think of three off the top of my head who would have been better choices,” he says, falling into the chair next to her. “Just for once, Jones-- be real. Why me?” 

Something in Jones’ expression softens, and it’s a few moments before she responds. 

“Look, you want the truth?” she says. “You’re right, I could have had my pick of the litter for this op. But I’ve been wanting to lead a mission for five years-- you think I’d blow it on picking just any random guy?”

She leans in toward Peter, tone serious and sincere.

“I picked you because I knew you were the right person for the role, Parker. Because the fact is-- you’re smarter, and funnier, and easier to talk to than every single other guy at SHIELD. So cut Stark and the other contestants some slack because if they could see what I see?”

She raises a hand to his face, cupping his cheek. “Peter, if they could see what I see, then they’d love you.”

Peter closes his eyes, mind racing. It wasn’t just Jones’ speech that floored him-- her clear and honest belief in him. 

It was also that - for the first time in over two years of working together - she’d called him _Peter._

He opens his eyes then, staring deep into her own.

“Michelle…”

Peter doesn’t know what he wants to say then - if he wants to say anything - but what he does know beyond a doubt in that moment is that he wants to kiss her. And with the way Michelle’s looking at him, Peter realizes maybe she wants that too. 

“Michelle, can I--”

The door slams open to reveal Brant, Peter and Michelle instantly pulling away from one another.

“Ah, Parker, there you are. Stark is looking everywhere for you. The swimsuit and interview prelims start in a half hour-- you need to get your ass to the pavilion stage pronto.”

* * *

Peter emerges from the changing rooms, a towel wrapped tightly around himself.

Everywhere the other contestants are casually walking around in their designer Speedos, and try as Peter might-- he can’t help but be self-conscious. 

He goes to stand in front of an open full-body mirror, opening the towel just enough to take a look. 

He’s grateful at least that Stark had gone with a simple, plain black one-- the least exposing option of them all.

He’s starting to fiddle with the matching black bow tie around his neck when he suddenly feels something wet and cold being sprayed across his practically bare ass. Yelping, he turns around to see Stark kneeling behind him, a can in his hand.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“It stops the suit from riding up,” Stark explains.

“Riding up where?”

“Just _up,”_ Stark says, rising to his feet and motioning for Peter’s towel. “Now c’mon, you can’t wear that onstage--”

Peter jumps out of reach, wrapping the towel tighter around himself. 

Stark gives a long sigh, looking defeated and tired. “Whatever you may think of me, Mr. Parker-- I’m truly only trying to help you.”

At that, Peter sighs in return, feeling his face go red with shame.

“Listen, Mr. Stark… I’m sorry for what I said to you earlier,” Peter says, looking down at the ground and feeling incredibly awkward but pressing on anyway. “I hope you know I do appreciate your help, this is all just really new and different and honestly kind of scary and well--”

There’s a hand on his shoulder then, and Peter looks up to see Stark looking at him with a small, kind smile. 

“Believe it or not, Mr. Parker, you’re not the first contestant I’ve coached who lost their shit at me-- deservedly so I’d add,” he says, glancing across the room for a moment before his eyes go back to Peter. “I apologize for my part as well.”

Stark’s eyes flit back to where he had glanced moments before, and this time Peter cranes his neck to see who he’s looking at only to see Steve Rogers across the room, trying to get Mr. Kentucky ready for the stage.

Peter turns back to Stark, a playful smile on his lips. “So did you and Rogers actually date or do you just pine from afar?”

Stark looks back at him as if prepared to argue before the fight seems to leave him in a whoosh. 

“Is it that obvious?”

“Very,” Peter replies with a grin. “So what happened?”

Stark looks just slightly to the side then, as if remembering a time long ago. 

“We had a relationship, yes. But then I made the mistake of letting him convince me to bring business into it - to coach him - and it just soured, well, absolutely everything. We went from happy and in love to fighting nearly every day.”

Stark bites his lip - looking as nervous as Peter’s ever seen him - before continuing. 

“We had a big fight the night before prelims and in my anger I broke things off, which I can now admit was a fairly heinous thing to do. I knew he was already so nervous and looking to me for support both as a partner and as his coach. But when I tried to apologize and get back together he wouldn’t even speak to me, and then his disaster of a talent routine happened… I think in the aftermath of the loss, he saw an opportunity to hurt me back and took it.”

Peter nods in understanding. “Have you tried apologizing?”

“To Drama Queen Steve? No,” Stark replies, scoffing and shaking his head. “The man would just throw it back in my face.”

“Or he might not.”

Stark turns to look back at Rogers, who Peter sees is now watching Stark just as closely. 

“...Perhaps not.”

Suddenly Stark’s demeanor changes, as if recalling something. “And what about you? When are you going to be honest and tell her you love her?”

“Who?”

Stark rolls his eyes. “You know who, underoos.”

“It’s not that simple, Mr. Stark,” Peter argues, and this time it’s his turn to sigh. “I really like her-- maybe even love her even... but we work together and besides, I _really_ don’t think she actually likes me like that.”

Stark just continues to stare at him, a knowing smile tugging on his lips. 

“I don’t know much about being a SHIELD agent, but I know what love looks like, Mr. Parker. And in this humble pageant consultant’s opinion, Miss Jones almost certainly loves you.”

* * *

Peter hustles off stage as quick as he can after parading around in the bathing suit. 

He’s pretty sure absolutely nothing in the world can make a person feel less attractive than standing next to Brad Davis in a Speedo.

God, he hopes Michelle wasn’t watching. If she did love him as Stark claimed, she wouldn’t after seeing that routine. 

It’s a quick change into his interview suit, and then once more he’s being shuffled back on stage, listening to the other contestants answer all sort of inane, boring questions. 

He’s just had to endure Flash Thompson go on a three-minute rant about his favorite beauty products when Harrington calls for Peter to come forward. 

“Hello, New Jersey. Tell us: what is the one most important thing our society needs?”

Peter smiles out at the audience, trying to think on his feet. He uses the first thought he genuinely feels passionate about.

“That would be higher wages for K-12 teachers, Roger,” he answers, beaming.

However, as the seconds go on and nobody claps, Peter looks back out at the stands and hesitantly tacks on, “...and world peace.”

The audience erupts in applause, some standing as Harrington thanks Peter for his time. Peter waves to the crowd before walking off-stage, immediately seeing Stark waiting in the wings for him, a smile on his face.

“That was passably charming, Mr. Parker.”

“Can I go unscrew my smile now?” Peter jokes, flashing Stark a robotic grin.

Before Stark can come back with something undoubtedly snarky, Mchelle appears at Peter’s side. Seeing her suddenly in front of him takes Peter by surprise, but in a way it never quite had before.

 _Maybe I really do already love her,_ Peter thinks, the words almost tumbling out. But luckily Michelle doesn’t even seem to notice the way he is staring adoringly at her-- too focused on whatever she needs to tell him. 

“We have a lead,” she says by way of greeting, pulling Peter off to the side. 

And just like that, Peter’s thoughts are brought back to the mission.

“Oh yeah?” Peter asks, eyes wide and curious.

Michelle just points at the stage, where Peter sees Ned just being called to the podium by Harrington.

 _“Ned Leeds?”_ he exclaims, incredulous.

Michelle nods. “The kid has a PhD in genetic sciences, and then Hardy found a James Bond fansite that - get _this_ \- Leeds is in charge of. Apparently he’s a major fan - like crazily so - and on top of that, he comes from money. Like, _lots_ of money. If that weren’t enough, his mother has a penthouse in Manhattan. It all fits, Peter.”

Just then Harrington asks Ned his question. “Mr. Rhode Island, would you please describe your perfect date?”

“That’s a tough one…” Ned pauses for a moment before smiling fondly. “I’d have to say April 25th. Not too hot, not too cold. All you need is a light jacket!”

Peter twists to face Michelle again, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, that’s _absolutely_ a hardened criminal right there. Come on, Michelle-- you can’t tell me you seriously think he’s Dr. No?”

When Michelle doesn’t respond right away, Peter adds “Besides, the guy who escaped from the lab was a good five inches taller than me, and Ned is at least two shorter. It can’t be him.”

“Then maybe he has an accomplice,” Michelle argues, only for her shoulders to droop, all the fight leaving her. “Look, can you just do me this favor and look into it? See if you can coax any information out of him? I really want to have something - _anything_ \- to give Fury when he gets here tonight, and right now I have shit. Please?”

Peter sighs, watching as Ned walks past, oblivious to Peter watching him in the shadows. He turns back to Michelle.

“Alright, I’ll talk to him. But you owe me a pizza after all this is over.”

Michelle smiles, Peter grinning right back. 

“You got it.”


	5. Leeds, Leads and Letdowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have a lead and it’s not Ned,” Peter says, directing it at Michelle.
> 
> But instead of getting hit with a barrage of questions, he’s surprised to find Michelle just nodding instead. 
> 
> “We know who Dr. No is.”

It was surprisingly not too difficult to convince Ned to go for drinks at the hotel bar after the interviews finished up. Peter had figured he’d have to ply him with a dramatic plea to bond, but Ned had enthusiastically squeaked _oh yes!_ before Peter even finished asking. In fact, he’d been so eager that Peter wondered if any of the other contestants had asked Ned to join in on _anything_ the last few days. 

Peter was all too happy to take advantage of his SHIELD credit card, and within an hour both of them were three drinks in and quite tipsy. Well, Peter was tipsy anyway. Ned - clearly a lightweight - was well on his way to drunk.

“This is so much fun!” Ned tells him over the constant din of the busy hotel bar, Peter finally seeing his opening.

“Yeah, it’s so much fun it should be _illegal,”_ he says with an over-the-top laugh, before adding with a serious tone, “speaking of illegal, have you ever like, committed a crime?”

Ned’s grin falters a bit. 

“Yes,” he finally says, taking another sip of his drink.

Peter can’t help the way his eyebrows rise at the omission. He really liked Ned - really believed Ned was innocent - but what if…?

Before Peter can ask, Ned barrels on.

“One time I stole a pair of boxers that were covered in Idris Elba’s face, but when my mom found them she almost kicked me out.”

Peter almost laughs, but manages to hold it in. Yet he can’t help the incredulity in his tone when he asks, “For stealing a pair of _boxers?”_

He doesn’t miss the way Ned looks down at the little LGBT ally pin affixed to his dress shirt, and oh god-- maybe Ned knows he’s being listened to, maybe he _is_ Dr. No, maybe he--

“She… she actually found them stashed with a bunch of gay porn magazines.”

If feels like all the air is sucked out of the room, nothing but a pit left in Peter’s stomach at Ned’s words. 

“I’m sorry, Ned,” he finally says, not missing the way Ned’s eyes had gone glassy. “She's the one who's messed up here though, you know that, right? Not only because she should love you unconditionally, but because it’s just-- it’s _wrong_ to judge a person for that. Stupid and cruel and _wrong.”_

“I know,” Ned replies wetly, but it doesn’t sound like he entirely means it. “She doesn’t approve of the pageant stuff either, but I’m thinking maybe if I win, she might finally be proud of me, you know? Getting a scholarship and making something of myself without her or my dad’s help.”

Peter puts a gentle hand on Ned’s shoulder, squeezing. “She should be proud of you anyway, and not just because she’s your mom. I meant it when I told you I know you’ve worked really hard to get here, and what you just said now-- that took a _lot_ of bravery, Ned. I’m really proud of you for all those things, and I bet Miss Romanoff is proud of you too, right?”

“Yeah-- yes,” Ned says, wiping at his eyes a bit.

“I mean, your baton twirling routine today was amazing,” Peter continues, patting Ned’s shoulder again for emphasis-- pleased when Ned gives him a small smile.

“You know I actually saw a twirling routine once where the guy had batons that were on fire at the ends?” Ned says, grinning drunkenly again. “It was _so_ cool!”

“So why don’t you do that?” Peter asks him, genuinely curious.

Ned shakes his head. “Oh, I could never do anything like that.”

“You totally could!” Peter argues back. “Ned, you would _kill_ that routine. If you did fire batons, it would be no competition.”

“You really think so?” Ned asks, the words not quite slurring but close.

“I do,” Peter says sincerely.

Ned smiles forlornly. “Well, it’s too late now-- the pageant starts in something like twelve hours.”

Peter wants to argue that it’s not too late - that they can figure something out - but just then Brad and Jason come over, having spotted them at the bar from the main lobby. 

“Ned, Chad-- you gotta settle a bet for us,” Jason says.

“Who was the best past Mr. United States winner: Bucky Barnes or Sam Wilson?” Brad asks them.

Peter is saved from having to give an answer when Ned immediately laughs boisterously and replies, “Oh, that’s easy. Definitely Bucky Barnes!”

At the response Jason does a whoop, pointing at Brad who groans. “You owe me twenty, dude.”

Ned turns back to his drink, taking a big gulp before drunkenly blurting out, “Too bad Sergeant Barnes was probably like, _murdered_ by Mr. Osborn right after.”

“Keep your voice down Ned, jeez!” Brad says at the same time Peter nearly spits out his drink, whipping his head to Ned and exclaiming, _“What?”_

Ned looks suddenly nauseous, glancing around the room with slowly blinking eyes before putting his head on the bartop and offering with a slightly slurred whisper, “It’s just rumors…”

“What’s he talking about?” Peter asks Brad and Jason, who look at each other for a few seconds before Jason leans in.

“You ever heard of the Green Goblin project?”

“No,” Peter answers honestly, shaking his head. “What is it?”

“It was some secret experimental thing that Osborn was recruiting pageant contestants for back in the late-2000s, a few years after he started the foundation,” Brad chimes in, looking around the room as if Osborn himself might suddenly jump out from behind a potted plant and tackle him. “He wasn’t able to get anyone to agree, but apparently he told Barnes the project could help him with his missing arm - how exactly, nobody knows - but anyway, Barnes agreed to do it and well…”

“A few months later, the guy just disappeared,” Jason finally finishes. “Nobody has seen or heard from him since.”

“Holy cow,” Peter says, eyes wide. He needs to get this info back to Michelle-- he needs to--

“Sorry guys, I-- I forgot about something I need to do,” he says, standing up and motioning to the bartender for his bill. He spares a glance at Ned - by now snoring - before turning to Brad and Jason. “Can you make sure Ned gets back to his hotel room safely for me?”

He doesn’t wait for a reply, just races out of the bar in the direction of the surveillance room.

* * *

It takes Peter three swipes of his key card to get into room 113, but as soon as he enters he stops dead in his tracks.

He’d forgotten Fury was coming-- the director and about five other SHIELD agents along with Michelle, Brant and Hardy all turning to look at where Peter stands breathlessly in the doorway.

It doesn’t change anything that Fury is there, Peter decides after a beat. They all need to know anyway.

“I have a lead and it’s not Ned,” he says, directing it at Michelle.

But instead of getting hit with a barrage of questions, he’s surprised to find Michelle just nodding instead. 

“We know who Dr. No is.”

Peter looks around, finally noticing that all the monitors and other equipment have been packed up. He looks back at Michelle, grinning.

“Oh, good! Did you arrest him yet? I imagine his room is the penthouse suite, or at least on the--”

“It’s Flash Thompson, Parker,” Fury interjects then, Peter’s jaw dropping. “Well, and his father Harrison Thompson. They were almost certainly working together.”

“What?” Peter exclaims. “But--”

“Earlier tonight, Flash was caught trying to put peanut oil in Mr. Nebraska’s breakfast smoothie mix-- peanut oil which Mr. Nebraska is extremely allergic to,” Michelle interrupts. “A search of his room found a case hidden under the bed that contained empty syringes that are identical to the one Dr. No used earlier this week. There were also full vials which analysis will almost certainly confirm is the same poison used on the lab victim. Hardy was also able to hack his computer and found encrypted files which confirm his direct involvement.”

Peter can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“Flash might be an asshole but he’s not a criminal mastermind!” Peter argues. “There’s no possible way--”

“Harrison Thompson is a lead scientist at OsCorp,” Michelle continues, voice hard. “We spoke with Osborn and apparently he informed Thompson last week his position was being terminated for certain lab _indiscretions_ not dissimilar to Dr. No. In any case, the man has the motive to go after Osborn’s favorite pet project, not to mention the cash, the connections and the access to the necessary tech. It all adds up.”

“The son is already in custody and we’re heading back to New York tomorrow morning to apprehend his father,” Fury says, moving to leave the room only to come to a halt when Peter doesn’t move out of his way.

“We need to stay and monitor the pageant, sir,” Peter says in as steady a voice as he can manage.

“What are you, Parker, deaf?” Fury retorts with a sneer. “We caught the guy!”

Peter shakes his head. “But what if we’re wrong, sir? Just-- just hear me out. What if the Thompsons were framed by someone with access to both Flash here and his father at Oscorp? Someone with even greater access to cash and connections and tech? Someone like-- like Norman Osborn.”

Fury rolls his eye but Peter won’t be deterred. “Just, just listen to me! I was talking to some of the guys tonight, and they gave me some intel that I really think we need to look into, and--”

“Enough, Parker!” Fury yells, everyone in the room except Peter jumping. “You were the reason I had to drag myself across the country in the first place. I don’t want to hear another damn word.”

“Yes sir, not another damn word,” Peter says, then a beat later, “But sir, not only did Osborn threaten to kill me over the talent show incident but then Jason told me he also headed a very similar project to Dr. No’s in the past, and that--”

“Who the hell is Jason? And that better not be alcohol on your breath,” Fury says, only for his eye to somehow go even wider as he turns to Michelle and asks, “What kind of operation are you running here, a damn frat party?”

Peter feels anger stir in his gut. “Sir--”

“Parker, would you just shut up already?” Michelle spits out, Peter turning to her in surprise only for his gaze to narrow at the exasperation on her face.

“Why? It’s not as if anyone _else_ is sticking up for me.”

“You’re the ringleader of this circus, Jones,” Fury says. “So tell me-- is there any reason to suspect Osborn?”

Michelle looks between Peter and Fury for a few moments, before her expression hardens. 

“No sir.”

“Well, that’s that then,” Fury says, shouldering past Peter and grabbing the door handle.

Peter twists to face him, voice pleading. “Sir, I request permission to stay behind with a small team and--”

“Request denied, Parker,” Fury calls out, halfway through the door.

“Then I request permission to stay behind alone.”

Fury stops the door from slamming, holding it open as he fixes Peter with a glare.

“You know what? I don’t care what you do-- if you want to stay, stay. But you’ll do so as a private citizen. Turn in your SHIELD badge. Everyone else, pack your stuff-- we head out first thing tomorrow morning.”

With that Fury disappears into the hallway, Brant and the other agents following right after him without so much as a glance at Peter. Hardy stops just long enough to give Peter a sympathetic look before also departing.

Once the door is closed again, Peter turns around angrily to face Michelle, folding his arms.

“What?” she asks defensively, then more softly, “C’mon, don’t look at me like I just betrayed you.”

“Betrayal implies an action,” Peter throws back. “You did _nothing.”_

“Because you had nothing to go on!” Michelle argues. “You said yourself Dr. No was five inches taller-- Norman Osborn has at best an inch over you. Plus we’ve both heard his voice-- it’s not the same as Dr. No’s.”

“And _you_ said he could have an accomplice!” Peter shouts only to immediately close his eyes and take a few steadying breaths.

“Look,” Peter finally says, “I know everyone thinks I’m just a screw-up, alright? But for the first time since I started at SHIELD I feel like I’m at the right place at the right time, Michelle. And I have to protect those men-- it’s my _job.”_

“Fine, but part of the job is also following orders,” Michelle says. 

Peter groans, throwing up his hands. “And part of it is using your brain! Sometimes you gotta take the rule book and throw it out--”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Michelle declares. “But this is my first mission as team leader and I’m not going to blow it up for some idiotic half-baked theory!”

Peter looks away at that, more hurt by her words than he wants her to know. There’s silence between them for a few moments before he hears Michelle come closer, putting a gentle hand on his arm.

“Just give it a rest, okay Peter?”

“Sure, yeah. Give it a rest, no problem,” Peter mutters, still not looking at her. After a few seconds he pulls his arm out of her grasp, only to take his SHIELD badge from his pocket and hand it to her, Michelle's eyes going wide.

“What are you doing?”

Peter doesn’t reply, just walks over to the hotel room door, throwing it open much as Fury had minutes earlier.

“Peter…”

Peter twists his head just enough to look back at her standing in the hotel room, gaze open and pleading. He only debates for a moment before shaking his head.

“That’s Parker to you, Jones.”

Peter doesn’t give her a chance to reply before walking out and letting the door slam behind him.

But even in his anger he still pauses, waiting for five seconds, ten, fifteen-- only to sadly sigh and walk back to his room alone.

Tossing and turning in bed that night, he tells himself that it was foolish to expect her to chase after him anyway.

* * *

Peter oversleeps the next morning, having been so upset and exhausted he’d forgotten to set his alarm.

As soon as he wakes up and sees the time he’s flying out of bed, taking a hasty shower and throwing on clothes before racing to Stark’s room-- surprised the man hadn’t come to find him earlier.

Peter doesn’t even stop to greet him when Stark opens the door, just walks past him into the room, heading for their makeshift beauty counter.

“Okay, Mr. Stark, time to handsome-fy me. Hair, make-up, plaster, whatever it is you do,” he says, sitting down and looking around. “Hey, where’s that glitter gel you put on my-- wait, why are your things all packed?”

Peter twists around to face Stark, who is looking at Peter almost mournfully.

“Your Director Fury insists that I not provide you further assistance without SHIELD oversight, or I could face legal action.”

Peter stands up, panicking. “No no no no-- after the Top 10 I’m completely on my own! SHIELD is gone, it’s not fixed anymore-- I _need_ you.”

“No, you don’t,” Stark replies with a fond smile. “I took a young man with not an iota of refinement and transformed him into a gentleman. My work here is done, Mr. Parker. You have everything you need.”

“No, Mr. Stark, come on--”

“I have never been prouder of any young man I have ever coached,” Stark goes on, stepping forward and putting a hand on Peter’s shoulder, steadying him.

“You are truly unique, underoos. If I ever had a son, I imagine he would be something like you.”

Even in his panic Peter manages to give Stark a genuinely appreciative smile, the older man sniffing after a few moments as if uncomfortable.

“Which is perhaps why I’ve never reproduced,” he adds but there’s no heat to the words, and Peter’s grin doesn’t falter.

Turning away, Stark walks over towards the bed where a lone garment bag is laid out.

“Look, Mr. Stark,” Peter tries again, “I have a really strong feeling that something bad is going to happen at the ceremony tonight. I need you to stay-- please!”

“As much as I wish I could stay, I can’t,” Stark replies, picking up the bag and holding it out to Peter. “But I do have something for you. I was saving it for tonight. It’s to your measurements.”

With a sigh Peter takes the bag, unzipping it to see a beautiful dark blue tuxedo identical to Steve Rogers’ Captain America pageant outfit, complete with a red bow tie. 

“I have no doubt you will pull it off splendidly,” Stark says as he grabs his own luggage, heading toward the hotel room door before pausing to add, “as long as you remember to smile.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, and he means it. But still, he can’t-- he needs--

“Mr. Stark, please just-- just _wait,”_ he pleads.

“Good luck to you, Chadsworth Swann,” the man says, opening the door and stepping out. “It’s been a privilege.”

“I understand you can’t stay,” Peter says quickly, Stark pausing. “But still-- I just need one last favor. It won’t take more than a few minutes, I promise. Please?”

Stark steps back in - a curious look on his face - and sets down his bags. 

“How can I be of assistance?”

* * *

“Chad, there you are! I can’t believe you missed the dress rehearsal!”

Peter races past Ned into the backstage dressing area, arms full of garment bags and hair and make-up kits. He only has twenty minutes before the live telecast starts and he barely has any idea how to even _begin_ to get himself pageant-ready.

Peter throws his thing all down in front of his designated vanity, looking at the entire mess with frozen distress for a few seconds before frantically fumbling with the zipper on the make-up kit and starting to dig.

He feels Ned come up beside him but doesn’t say anything, just keeps searching through the kit.

“Chad, is everything okay?”

“I overslept, and now Mr. Stark’s gone,” Peter finally says. “I just… I need… I don’t even know which one of these shimmer creams is for your face... I can’t…”

Peter is so panicked that he doesn’t notice when Ned walks away, nor when he comes back with Brad, Jason and - of all people - Wade Wilson, the rather intense guy from Illinois that Peter swore he had seen talking to thin air the day before. 

Without so much as a word the four of them all start opening his kits and bags-- Ned and Brad focusing on his make up while Jason tackles his hair and Wade pulls out his various garments. 

“Why-- why are you guys all helping me?” Peter finally asks, the four of them all chuckling kindly before Ned finally answers. 

“We might be competing against each other, Chad-- but we’re a family too. And real families take care of each other.”

The others all nod in agreement, Peter swallowing down a sudden lump in his throat-- realizing in that moment just how wrong he’d been to assume anyone who’d sign up for a beauty pageant was just a meathead jerk. 

Sure, maybe the idea of the beauty pageant itself was outdated and classist-- but that didn’t mean all the people who were involved with it were all that way too. Hell, a lot of them - namely Ned, but Peter could think of a few others - were some of the kindest people he’d had ever met in his life. 

“Guys, I can’t begin to…” Peter trails off, feeling his eyes tear up. 

Ned must notice how emotional he’s getting because he pulls away from Peter’s face just far enough to pat his shoulder. 

“We all got your back, man.”

Twenty minutes later, the guys declare Peter ready for the Top 10 reveal just as a backstage assistant calls out that the show is about to go live in thirty seconds-- everyone needing to take their places.

Peter hastily goes to his assigned spot between New Hampshire and New Mexico, taking a few deep breaths to prepare himself.

Just then he sees Osborn with Harold-- the man whispering furiously into his leaning assistant’s ear, while Harold attentively nods along. 

Peter watches as Osborn goes to take his place next to Harrington at the front of the line-- Osborn being the co-host to the emcee. 

As though Osborn knows Peter is looking, he twists his neck to stare directly at Peter-- giving him a smug smirk.

Peter feels a quiet determination settle in his chest at the sight, thinking again of Ned’s words.

Because these men - all 49 of them - they’re his pageant family. And there is no way Peter is going to let any of them come to harm.

And if it’s the last thing Peter does. he’s going to take Dr. No down-- no matter what. 

“Alright people,” the backstage assistant calls out. “We’re live in three, two, one…”

Peter takes a steadying breath, before plastering on a pageant smile that would make Stark beam with pride if he could see it.

_It’s showtime._


	6. The 25th Annual Mr. United States Pageant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And if anyone, and I mean _anyone_ tried to hurt one of my new friends, I would take them down. I would tackle them to the ground and tie them up and leave them for the authorities. And if they tried to run away, I’d swing over and stop them in their tracks. I’d climb walls with my bare hands if I had to, just to make sure they were brought to justice.”
> 
> There’s silence as Peter and Osborn stare each other down, neither bothering to hide their contempt.
> 
> With a giant smile Peter turns back to the crowd. “Thank you, Mr. Osborn.”

Peter leaves the stage with the other nine Top 10 contestants - Ned and Brad among them - to go put on their talent outfits. Meanwhile the other forty - well, thirty-nine since Flash wasn’t there - hurried to get ready between commercial breaks for the swimsuit dance number. 

If nothing else good happens tonight-- at least Peter doesn’t have to wear a Speedo on national television.

Peter is just leaving one of the small dressing rooms to in his black dance outfit when he sees a long, skinny box on his vanity top. Excited, he grabs it off the table - sending a silent thank you to Stark for the favor - and jogs over to where Ned is busy getting the final touches of his make-up just so.

“Here, Ned,” Peter says, handing him the box.

“What’s this?” Ned asks curiously.

“Just open it,” Peter says with a delighted smile, giddy as Ned does so.

Ned freezes when he pulls out the fire batons, eyes wide and jaw slack.

“Oh man, Chad! But I couldn’t--”

“Yes you can, Ned,” Peter interrupts, voice firm. “I know you can and I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t mean it. We’re family, remember?”

Ned stares at the batons for a few more seconds before glancing up at Peter, looking as determined as Peter has ever seen him.

“I can do it.”

“That’s the spirit!” Peter exclaims, clapping Ned on the back. 

With that Ned heads out of the prep area and toward backstage, Peter watching him go with a fond smile that quickly morphs into an expression of total shock when he sees none other but Tony Stark rush in, looking flustered.

“Mr. Stark, what are you--”

Stark just shakes his head. “Come with me, underoos. No questions.”

Peter looks around before tightly nodding, motioning for Stark to lead the way.

The man guides him out of the backstage area completely and down an abandoned hallway, before popping into a janitor’s closet.

Peter follows him inside and--

“Jones?”

“Hey Parker,” Michelle says, giving him a small smile.

“What-- what are you doing here?” Peter asks then whips his head to Stark. “And you too? I thought--”

“We changed our minds,” Michelle says, smirking at Stark. “Or, well, I changed mine and convinced Stark to come along so he could get me backstage.”

Peter turns to Stark, still confused. “But what about what Fury said?”

Stark shrugs. “Let him throw the book at me if he wants. I have enough money to keep any charges tied up in court for years-- and besides, my lawyer is _Pepper Potts_. The woman is the best damn litigator in the northern hemisphere.”

Peter shakes his head, looking over at Michelle. “So you don’t have new intel to back my theory, but you still came back anyway? I just… I don’t understand why--”

“My instinct told me that you were onto something, and I realized I wouldn’t be being a good team leader if I ignored it,” Michelle replies, staring deep into Peter’s eyes. “So I came back-- even though it meant handing my badge to Fury.”

Something warm settles in Peter’s chest at Michelle’s words, and he smiles softly.

“Damn, Jones,” Peter says. “What happened to following orders?”

“Someone told me you have to use your brain too, Parker,” Michelle replies, smirking. “And since you don’t have one--”

“You wound me, Michelle.”

“Then put a band-aid on it and buck up, Peter.”

“My god,” Stark says then, shaking his head as he looks between the two of them. “Just kiss already, will you? This is insufferable.”

Not a bad idea, Peter thinks. He really does want to kiss her right--

“Not right now,” Michelle says, giving Peter a wink before turning business-like once more, opening the closet door and poking her head out.

She glances behind her at Stark and Peter, a determined look on her face.

“Right now, we have a bad guy to stop.”

* * *

Peter stands on stage for the Top 5 reveal, smiling at Ned when his name is called. 

Peter’s earlier Rihanna performance had been another hit, but this time without any unfortunate lunges into the crowd. However, he’d had no time to be proud of himself-- too focused on what could be going on backstage.

He glances over at where Stark is watching just off-stage-- knows Michelle is somewhere hidden in the wings, watching Osborn as closely as she can. 

Peter hasn’t seen her since they parted in the hallway-- a ping of worry running through him. 

_Michelle can take care of herself_ , he thinks. And even if she couldn’t, he’s about to be set free to help her as soon as they get offstage, since there’s no way he’s making the Top--

“And our fifth and final contestant to move on is….” Harrington says, building suspense. “Mr. New Jersey!”

Peter whips his head back to face Harrington and the audience, body frozen and jaw dropped.

Even as the crowd cheers he still doesn’t move, at least not until Mr. Vermont elbows him in the side.

Peter stumbles but somehow manages not to trip as he walks over to the number five spot, smiling and waving-- Ned beaming at him just to his left.

“Next are our interviews with the Top 5,” Harrington tells the audience. “Stay tuned!”

The show cuts to commercial, and the group is told to stay on stage as they arrange for the interview portion.

Not thirty seconds later Peter is directed to his interview chair, not missing the way Osborn positively glares at him from where he’s seated next to Harrington. 

Peter doesn’t even try to hide his loathing as he stares right back. It takes everything in him not to tackle the man to the ground right then and there.

Thankfully, the show comes back only moments later, Harrington briefly explaining how the interviews will work before turning to Osborn expectantly.

“Our first question is for Mr. Rhode Island,” Osborn reads smoothly. “How do you see America going forward in these hyper partisan times?”

Ned goes rigid in his chair, and for a few moments Peter is concerned he’s frozen up until--

“Well in a way, I think America is like a big ship,” Ned says, grinning at Osborn before turning to face the crowd-- Peter hoping they see the sincerity and kindness that shines from Ned as clearly as he does. 

“And when we work together and respect each other, that’s when the ship gets safely home.”

The audience cheers, Ned laughing a bit in shock before grinning all the harder and looking excitedly over at Peter, who in turn gives him a reassuring look before turning back to Osborn-- Osborn, who is smirking devilishly at Peter.

“Our next question is for Mr. New Jersey,” Osborn announces with just a small amount of smarm in his tone. “New Jersey, as you may know, there are many who consider the Mr. United States pageant to be outdated and anti-intellectual. What would you say to them?”

“I would have to say, I used to be one of them,” Peter says, the crowd immediately murmuring amongst themselves before a hush falls over the auditorium.

“But then I came here,” Peter goes on, “and I realized that these young men are smart, terrific people who are just trying to make a difference in the world. For me, this experience has been one of the most rewarding and best experiences of my life-- not just because of the honor of being here, but because of getting to know my fellow contestants.

“In fact, we’ve become really good friends,” Peter continues, sending Ned a fond look before turning back to Osborn and letting his smile fall. 

“And if anyone, and I mean _anyone_ tried to hurt one of my new friends, I would take them down. I would tackle them to the ground and tie them up and leave them for the authorities. And if they tried to run away, I’d swing over and stop them in their tracks. I’d climb walls with my bare hands if I had to, just to make sure they were brought to justice.”

There’s silence as Peter and Osborn stare each other down, neither bothering to hide their contempt.

With a giant smile Peter turns back to the crowd. “Thank you, Mr. Osborn.”

The applause takes an extra beat and is half-hearted, but Peter doesn’t care-- the only thing that matters to him is making sure Osborn never hurts another person again.

* * *

The last three interview questions only take about five minutes, and soon enough the group is being shuffled offstage and sent back to the dressing rooms to put on their tuxes for the winner’s reveal.

As soon as Peter sees Stark, he grimaces slightly-- after all, that response was decidedly _not_ well-mannered.

But Stark merely grins at him, looking proud.

“Well, that was perfect up until you bodily threatened Norman live on national television,” the man says, Peter chuckling. “I think you did manage to scare him, though-- maybe enough that he won’t go through with whatever scheme he has planned. Truly very good work, underoos.”

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter replies sincerely, basking in the praise-- only to be distracted when he spies none other than Steve Rogers standing by the entrance to the backstage area, watching Stark nervously.

“I think you have a caller, Mr. Stark,” he says with a smirk-- Stark turning to look over before whipping his head back to Peter.

“How do I look?”

“Like you’re about to make up with your man,” Peter replies smoothly. 

Stark rolls his eyes but his expression is one of delighted anticipation. With a nod he steps away toward Rogers. Peter watches as Rogers starts to speak before Stark steps forward, himself talking for a minute or two. 

Peter laughs when without preamble Rogers suddenly pounces on the older man, hugging him to his chest. Eventually Stark takes Rogers’ hand, leading him out the door-- probably back to that deserted janitor closet, Peter thinks with a smirk as he starts changing into his blue tuxedo.

Peter barely has time to admire himself in the mirror before the five remaining contestants are being ushered back out onstage.

Just as he enters from stage left, he spots Michelle in the wings on stage right, doing an exaggerated shrug as if to say _Nothing suspicious so far._

Peter turns to see Osborn standing near Harrington, Harold handing the emcee his cue cards for the reveal of the winner. If anything is going to happen at the ceremony - and it _is,_ Peter knows it - then it’s going to happen in the next few minutes.

Soon enough the cameraman is counting down the last few seconds to the live reveal, all five contestants in a row while Osborn and Harrington stand slightly off to the side with the winner from last year, who is holding a gold sash and a pillow with a beautiful silver crown on it.

“Welcome back! And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for,” Harrington says, looking down at his cue cards. “Fourth runner up is… Mr. Idaho!”

Peter and the others clap as Mr. Idaho is handed his sash and prompted to walk to the other side of the stage. 

“Third runner up… Mr. New York!”

Brad steps forward, giving the audience a smile that is tinged with disappointment as he makes his way to stand by Mr. Idaho. 

Peter glances over at Osborn but the man isn’t do anything besides standing there with a fake smile.

“Second runner up… Mr. South Dakota!”

Peter takes a deep breath as he claps again, only for his eyes to widen when he realizes that they haven’t called for Mr. New Jersey yet.

“I’m in the top two?” he says outloud, feeling someone grab his hand. He whips his head over to see Ned beaming at him, looking equally nervous and excited.

“We made it Chad!” he says, Peter nodding dumbly back.

“So who will it be, Mr. New Jersey or Mr. Rhode Island?” Harrington asks the audience, pausing for suspense.

“And the winner of the 25th Annual Mr. United States Pageant is… Mr. Rhode Island!”

Immediately confetti falls from the ceiling, loud emotional music starting to play as the audience cheers and last year’s winner runs over to Ned, placing the gold sash on him along with the crown.

Ned turns to look at Peter, eyes wide and jaw slack. “I… I won?”

Peter laughs, patting him on the back. “Yeah! You won! You did it, Ned!”

Ned positively _screams,_ face crumpling for a few seconds before he composes himself-- giving Peter one final smile before stepping forward and waving to the crowd. 

Peter steps over to where the other runner-ups are situated across the stage-- keeping a close eye on Osborn.

The audience is still cheering and clapping when the cameras cut away to commercial, and everyone is allowed to exit the stage. Peter follows the others to the dressing rooms, Harrington following them while Osborn goes off another direction.

Peter glances back to the stage only once to see Harold saying something in Ned’s ear, before he turns a corner and loses sight of them. 

Peter shakes his head, mentally kicking himself. Nothing ended up happening… was Peter wrong? Was it really Flash and his father this whole time?

And now he’s gone and got Michelle in trouble with Fury too, all for _nothing._

God, he really is a terrible agent, Peter thinks as he takes off his tuxedo coat and places it on his vanity. He should just resign, save everyone the trouble of having to deal with him again. He should--

“Where’s Rhode Island?” a clipped voice asks the room, Peter turning to see Osborn standing around with a manila envelope. “I have his scholarship check along with some other papers-- I need to see him. It’s protocol!”

Harrington steps forward from his dressing area. “But you changed things up this year, I thought?”

“What are you talking about?” Osborn sneers.

“My cue cards-- they said to follow the runner-ups off the stage so that the winner could be immediately whisked away on a week-long vacation courtesy of Oscorp.”

“They said _what?”_ Osborn says. “That’s ridiculous-- I agreed to no such thing! And where the hell is Harold? He’s always disappearing god knows where…"

Peter doesn’t hear the rest of Osborn’s rant though, having frozen in place. 

Oh god. He’d gotten it wrong. It wasn’t Osborn-- it was _Harold._ Meek, quiet Harold, who was exactly the right height and who had never said a word in Peter’s presence-- probably to keep Peter from recognizing his voice.

Why Harold would do all this, Peter has no idea, but he knows in his gut he’s right and oh god, he has to find Ned-- has to find him _now._

Racing forward, Peter grabs Harrington’s arm, the man turning to him with an alarmed look.

“Where-- where would they take the winner? To-- to send him off?”

“I have no idea,” Harrington responds, Peter feeling panic stir in his gut. He turns away and is racing out of the room when Harrington calls after him.

“I did see a helicopter land in the pavilion right before the ceremony however,” Harrington adds after a moment. “Perhaps--”

“Thank you!” Peter calls out, disappearing out the doors.

He’s flying down the hallways, looking everywhere for Michelle but not seeing her until--

“Peter?” Michelle asks, stepping out of the wings. “What’s--”

“No time,” Peter responds, running past her. “C’mon!”

Together the two of them race through the auditorium, into the lobby and finally exiting the building and entering the main pavilion.

The helicopter blades are already whipping around, and ahead Peter sees Ned starting to climb inside, Harold right behind him-- in one hand a black bag, and in the other a small glass container with something tiny and black moving around inside.

The _spider,_ Peter realizes. The serum is in the spider! Dr. No - _Harold_ \- must have taken the creature with him that night in the lab!

Oh god, Harold was going to let it bite Ned and-- but no. 

_No,_ Peter decides. He vowed to protect Ned, and protect him he would.

Peter doesn’t think about what he’s doing as he watches Harold begin to climb into the helicopter-- just comes up from behind him and pulls the man backward while Harold shouts in surprise.

The momentum has Peter twisting around with Harold still in his arms, the two of them falling to the ground side by side. 

Peter hears the sound of the container shattering across the cement, and just as he’s about to get back to his feet he registers a small, painful pinch on his outstretched hand-- no doubt a piece of sharp glass embedded into his skin.

Peter doesn’t even glance at the wound as he jumps to his feet, seeing Harold has already done the same. 

The man starts to make a break for it when suddenly Michelle appears, punching Harold with all her might and knocking him out-- the taller man not so much as getting out even a small cry before he drops back down to the ground.

Peter pants as he stares in astonishment first at Harold and then at Michelle, the two of them exchanging long glances before they both break out in relieved chuckles.

Ned steps out of the helicopter, a confused look on his face. “Chad? What’s going on?”

Peter is still laughing when he puts an arm around Ned, Michelle coming over and sliding under the other one.

“I promise I’ll explain everything, Ned, but first-- it’s time you made good on our agreement, Michelle. I’m _starving.”_

* * *

Peter’s sitting alone in the back of an ambulance not far from the main hotel entrance, having just had his hand bandaged up when Michelle saunters over, carrying a giant pizza box.

Peter doesn’t even say hello before he digs in-- pulling out a slice and taking a huge bite, moaning at the taste.

“How’s your hand?” Michelle asks, sitting down next to him and pulling a slice out for herself.

“Throbbing but otherwise okay,” Peter replies between bites. “The EMT couldn’t find any glass shards but said it was definitely a double puncture wound. Should heal up on its own though. Anyway-- what’s up with Harold? Did he confess?”

“He did, but it’s a pretty crazy tale,” Michelle says. “Claims he’s Osborn’s illegitimate son, and that he was hoping to replicate the Winter Soldier serum Osborn himself tried and failed to recreate back years ago. He wanted to present it to Osborn along with the truth of his paternity in the hopes his father would be _proud_ of him and publicly recognize him as his kid.”

“What the--”

“But somehow it all came out a few months ago,” Michelle goes on. “Osborn told Harold he knew already and never intended to have any sort of close relationship with him-- was only willing to offer him a job and nothing more.”

Peter shakes his head incredulously. “I’d say that’s a bunch of bullshit and that no father would be that cruel, but after getting to know Osborn-- I believe it.”

Michelle nods. “Osborn already confirmed it. In any case, after that, little Harry decided he wanted revenge instead-- that he would inject himself with the serum and become powerful and strong in a way his father had only ever dreamed of being. But first-- he needed a worthy human to test it on.”

“So he planned to use the winner of the pageant against their will,” Peter says, nodding in understanding. “And what about Flash and his dad?”

“Harold framed them,” Michelle replies. “Managed to fool everyone-- well, everyone except you.”

Peter softly smiles, letting the compliment sit in the air between them.

“You’re not wrong, Michelle,” he finally says, taking another bite. “That’s a crazy tale.”

“The guy’s _insane,_ Peter,” Michelle says as if that explains everything-- and Peter figures maybe it does. “But it’s all done with now. The spider was found dead near the helicopter and Harold claims it was the only one that survived the experiments-- so the serum died with it, more or less.”

They eat in pleasant silence for a few minutes, Michelle standing up when she’s finished her slice and giving Peter a smug grin. “Time to go call Fury.”

Peter smirks. “God, I wish I could see his face when you tell him we got the _real_ Dr. No-- and that it was a twenty-something like us who successfully duped him. And that I was _right!”_

“Yeah yeah, don’t go getting a big head about it,” Michelle teases, pulling her phone out of her pocket.

“I think you mean _yes yes,”_ Peter quips, Michelle rolling her eyes before starting to walk away.

Just then Peter feels a sudden stirring in his chest-- a warmth that he doesn’t fully understand yet, but already knows he doesn’t want to ever let go of.

“Hey Michelle?”

Michelle twists back around.

“I was thinking, maybe when we get back to the city and get our reports finished, and I go back to being my regular shabby self again… maybe I could take you out to dinner?”

Michelle smiles. “Are you asking me on a date, Peter?”

“I am, Michelle.”

Michelle considers him for a moment. “MJ.”

“Huh?”

“I hate being called Michelle,” she says. “Everyone close to me calls me MJ.”

“Close to you…” Peter trails off only to stand up, trying not to sound as hopeful as he feels. “Is that a yes then, MJ?”

MJ sidles right up to him, and this time there’s no donut, no Brant, no crazy villains-- nothing to stop what Peter so desperately wants to happen.

“It’s a yeah _and_ a yes, tiger,” MJ whispers, only to glance down at his lips expectantly.

They both go in at the same time, Peter wrapping MJ up in his arms as they kiss, softly at first but then with a passion that quickly takes hold.

Someone whistles, but Peter doesn’t pay attention-- doesn’t even care.

The only thing he cares about in that moment is making sure he'll never go another day without a kiss from MJ again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for everyone who has left a comment an extra thank you-- you guys are the bees knees and ilu <3
> 
> Epilogue coming soon!!!


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has followed this fic!! If you have been reading but haven't commented yet-- please consider leaving a note to let me know what you thought?! Thank you!! <3 <3 <3

Peter wakes up in his hotel room the next morning with a splitting headache and chills. He’d felt fine yesterday, he thinks as he stumbles to the bathroom and starts to get ready to travel home. 

He’s sluggish and so it takes a little bit longer to gather all his things, but eventually he’s dressed, packed and ready to go.

His hand somehow throbs even worse than it did the night before, and he’s just about to take off the bandage to check the wound for infection when someone pounds on his door.

“Mr. Stark?”

“You have to come with me, underoos,” Stark says, grabbing Peter by his good hand and pulling him along.

“I--what’s--”

“You’ll see,” Stark replies, voice brooking no argument-- Peter feeling too exhausted to argue.

Together they make their way to the lobby and toward the closed doors of the dining hall. Peter spots MJ waiting right by the entrance, giving him a wide smile only to frown slightly as they get closer. 

“Hey, you feeling okay?” MJ asks, putting a hand to Peter’s brow. “Shit, Peter-- you’re burning up.”

“Must’ve caught a bug,” Peter says with a shrug. “What’s going on?”

MJ still looks worried but lets it go for now, just nods to the door of the dining hall. “You’ll have to go in and find out.”

Peter scoffs a bit at how cryptic she’s being, looking to Stark who just smiles and nods encouragingly.

With another shrug Peter twists the door handle and opens it to find--

“He saved my life, he saved the pageant-- and here he is!” Ned says from where he’s situated at the podium near the front of the room, all the other pageant contestants turning around and starting to clap and whoop when they spot Peter.

“What the-- what’s going on?” Peter asks, gobsmacked.

“Just go to the front,” MJ says from behind him, giving Peter a nudge to keep walking. He stumbles between the tables, getting a couple high-fives and back-pats along the way. 

As soon as he reaches Ned, he’s pulled into a big hug before the young man finally pulls away, announcing, “Ladies and Gentlemen, Agent Peter Parker of SHIELD!”

Peter sees Brad walking forward then, a bright blue sash with some sort of red and gold lettering on it.

“Oh no,” Peter says, face going immediately red despite how pale he’d been just moments earlier. “Ned, this is really nice but there’s no reason to--”

“There’s every reason to, Peter,” Ned says quietly then more loudly, “Because even though you’re a secret agent, to us you’ll always be Chadsworth G Swann the Fourth, the nicest, friendliest, most _badass_ guy at the pageant, and this year’s Mr. Congeniality!”

Everyone starts clapping again as Brad puts the sash around Peter, before Ned steps out of the way to give Peter room to stand at the podium himself.

Peter looks out at the crowd for a few moments, trying to gather his thoughts. 

“I uh, I don’t know what to say…”

Peter spots where Brad has gone to stand by Jason and Wade, all of them grinning fondly at him. Even Flash is there, standing in the back, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“I never thought something like this would happen to me, you know?” Peter begins, voice wavering just the tiniest bit before he goes on. “But now it has and, well, I guess I just want to say that I’m very honored and moved and truly touched. And…”

Peter trails off. The thought of all these guys - his pageant family - taking the last moments they all have together to let Peter know how grateful they are has him suddenly tearing up, and he wipes hastily at his eyes. 

Oh well-- if anyone asks later, he can blame it on the fever.

“And I really do want world peace,” he finishes with a tiny wet sob, everyone immediately clapping again. 

Ned pulls him into another hug, and then suddenly Brad is wrapping his arms around the two of them, then Jason. 

It only takes moments before the entire group of 50 are all gathered in one giant embrace, a teary, grateful Peter in the middle of it all. 

* * *

“Give me a call when you’re feeling better-- I can go stay at the penthouse in Manhattan and we can hang out!” Ned insists yet again, pulling Peter in for what has to be his hundredth hug of the morning. “I’m just so glad I met you!”

“I’m glad I met you too, Ned,” Peter says with a smile as Ned pulls away, picking up his bags. “And I’ll definitely give you a call when I’m better, I promise.”

Ned just smiles back before walking out the lobby doors, throwing Peter one last “bye!” that Peter happily returns. 

He turns around to see if MJ has returned with both of their luggage when he spots Stark on the other side of the lobby, holding hands with none other than Steve Rogers.

Stark gives Rogers a quick peck before sauntering up to Peter, flashing him a toothy smile.

“So, you two…” Peter points between the two of them, Stark looking over at Rogers with a wink before turning back to Peter and nodding.

“Yes,” Stark responds. “And I suppose I have you to thank for that as well. Had you not been in such dire need of my services, I might have gone another seven years without apologizing to Steven.”

“Glad I could help,” Peter says with a laugh, putting his hand out to Stark, who shakes it warmly. “And thank you too-- for everything.”

“I’ll see you around the city, underoos,” Stark says with a grin. He starts to walk back over to Rogers, the two of them heading for the lobby doors.

“And don't forget,” Stark tosses over his shoulder just as the sliding doors begin to close, "Smilers wear a crown--"

“Losers wear a frown,” Peter finishes with a fond shake of his head, watching until the man disappears from view. 

Now that he’s finally alone, he can finally admit the truth: he feels like crap. With a groan he closes his eyes, rubbing at his forehead.

When he opens them again his vision is slightly blurry, everything going kaleidoscopic. The disorientation has him stumbling, only a firm hand grabbing at his shoulder keeping him from falling to the pristine lobby floor.

“Whoa, steady,” MJ says, one hand holding him up while the other ghosts across his forehead again. “Jesus, Peter. Forget going to the airport-- I think you might need the hospital. How are you feeling?”

“Dizzy, nauseous, like I could sleep for a week and still be tired,” Peter admits, closing his eyes again at the feel of MJ’s cool palm against his cheek. “Damn hand won’t stop throbbing too.”

A look of confused alarm overtakes MJ’s features, the hand on Peter’s cheek moving to take his own, lifting it up. “You think it’s infected?”

“Feels like it could be,” Peter replies, MJ giving him a tight nod.

“Let’s see how it looks,” she says, starting to unravel the tightly bound bandages.

Both of them let out twin gasps when the wound is finally revealed.

The back of his hand is grossly inflamed, bright red skin surrounding the site but gray, dead skin at the edges.

Seeing the two swollen punctures now, Peter can’t help but notice how identical they look - more like twin injection sites than separate wounds.

Peter’s eyes go wide as he recalls the pain he had felt the moment he’d fallen to the ground-- a sudden piercing of the skin, but only the one.

Almost as if something had _bit_ him.

“Oh god,” Peter breathes out, feeling like he might faint.

MJ must have come to the same conclusion as Peter, her gaze going from his hand to his face, looking as horrified as Peter feels.

“Peter, that looks like…”

“A spider bite,” Peter dazedly supplies, the two of them staring at each other in stunned silence before their lips part simultaneously.

_“Shit.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are most appreciated. Or come hang out with me on [tumblr](https://blondsak.tumblr.com)!


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